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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Becky"  Becky's confession gives you pause, for you can well imagine how Carmen—an intensely theatrical personality who used to teach drama, and who by the looks of things has tried shaping her daughter into an encore of herself—would react to a snub like that. But it sets the wheels turning in your mind, and they click along even as the waiter comes out to ask if you've settled on something. Both of you order salads—yours with walnuts, prosciutto, cranberries, and a vinaigrette—and then Becky asks what you're thinking about, for you've fallen into an intense silence. "Will your mom let me take you back to Los Angeles?" you ask. The question, of course, doesn't surprise her. "I don't think so." "Even if I told her I wanted to connect with you, be a father—" "I still don't think so. She doesn't badmouth you, exactly, uh, but—" "Suppose I told her I could get you into an acting program. You come out with me, and I put you into a high school with an acting program. And in Los Angeles, you know, those are— Also, I can get you contacts. Not just with casting directors and agents, but with coaches. What would she say about that?" Becky looks down at her bread plate, with an intensity as though it were a crystal ball showing her a possible future. "I still don't think— The thing is, she knows I'm no good. She won't say it, but she knows—" "Hey." You lean across to lift her face with a fingertip under the chin. "That's stage work. That's not movies, that's not TV. What did Mr. Wilkes have to say about you, exactly?" She sighs. "That I didn't have a presence. My voice doesn't project." She pauses. "That I disappear into the backdrop." Ouch. She must have been bad if Mr. Wilkes thought that kind of thing disqualifying. Paul worked with a lot of kids at Westside who squeaked when they declaimed, couldn't hit a mark, and bumped into the furniture like it was invisible. "He knew how good Mother wanted me to be. He was telling her it wasn't going to happen." She tucks a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. "I'm still friends with kids in the theater program. I even practice with them, helping them learn lines. Some of them say I'm better than them. But I'm not— Well—" You're just not the girl that Carmen would have expected to get by Paul Griffin. But Hollywood is full of those kinds of kids as well. The children of actors who can't act; children of scriptwriters who can't write; children of executives who can't balance their own checkbooks; and children of agents and lawyers who can't even manage to fuck a whore, let alone a studio, network, producer, or client. "Well, like I say, that's stage work. Movies and TV, you just have to photograph well and say the words in the right order. If I told your mother that with some good glamour shots, the right coaches, my contacts, and the friends you could make at a Los Angeles high school—" "She likes the theater," Becky says. "But—" "But?" Her gaze goes distant again. "It'd be worth a shot." You gently squeeze her hand. "Never mind me as a father," you say. "Would you trust me as a mentor?" She blushes with pleasure. "I think so!" "Then that's what we'll tell your mother." You smile at each other. The rest of the conversation is about a much more interesting topic—your career. When lunch is over and you've paid the bill, you pull her chair back and help her up. But out front, as you're crossing the parking lot, Becky returns to the earlier topic. "Paul, do you really think I could be a good enough actress in TV or movies?" "I think you could, Becky." She giggles, and her voice turns throaty and conspiratorial. "But am I good actress right now, Will?" "You're amazing, Sydney. I was this close to forgetting it wasn't you." * * * * * You spend the balance of the day pretending to be a father and daughter getting to know each other. You see a movie then drive around town, where you point out places you used to hang out, things that have changed, telling stories about your time as a cocky young high-school stallion. Becky takes you by her favorite places, which include Arnholm's Used Books and the Crystal Cave coffee shop next door. She asks about your parents, and if they know about her. You assure her that they don't, and that they aren't going to learn about her either. She seems offended at first, and pouts. Then, abruptly, she grunts and says, "Yeah, that's probably best. Keep things simple." You get her home by five, though, so she can have her supper. Before parting, you agree that she won't tell Carmen anything about the "Los Angeles" plans. Instead, she will tell her mother that her father is a kind, warm, attentive human being, and that the two of you instantly bonded. Later that night you take a long walk down a country lane, smoking one of the joints that Paul brought with him. After taking a little off the edge this way, you call Carmen. "So," you ask her, "does Rebecca like me?" "You're a hit," she says, but her tone is unmistakably frosty. "Probably the biggest you've ever had in your life." "Well, good. I tried, and ... She's a really good kid." "Well, you don't have to worry she'll go on social media and trash you." Will you? you want to ask. Instead, you ask if she can meet you for breakfast in the morning. There's a long pause before she agrees. Back at the house, as you're getting ready for bed, there's a soft knock on your door. It's your mother, and she wears a prim expression. "Thank you for taking it outside," she tells you. "But next time, take a little longer walk, so it's not so noticeable when you come back in the house." You mumble an apology, and with a tight smile she wishes you goodnight. * * * * * You're at the Sunshine Diner by seven o'clock, and you only have to wait ten minutes or so before Carmen breezes in. It's Monday and she's in her office clothes—a pantsuit and boots—but there's no smothering the inescapably "artistic" air that she carries around with her. Her manner is cool and unfriendly as she slides into the booth opposite. She looks startled as you pour her a coffee from the carafe, and her expression turns wary as you lean across the table to give her your "pitch." "I want to take Rebecca back to Los Angeles with me." Her eyes pop. "What?" "I want to take Rebecca back to Los Angeles with me. I want her to move in with me, transfer to a local high school—" "Good God!" She glances around, then muffles her voice. "Are you drunk?" "No, I'm stone sober. We had a lot of time to talk yesterday, and—" "She liked you, Paul, but that doesn't mean—" "She wants to be an actress." Carmen sucks in a sharp breath. "She's had nothing but disappointment out here, Carmen. She told me about the local program, and Wilkes, and— It's not doing her any good. It crushed her." Carmen stares at you, then picks up the water glass and takes a long drink. "What exactly did she tell you?" she asks after setting it down. "Everything. More, probably, than she's told you." Carmen's eyes sharpen. "She thinks she's a disappointment to you." "Oh, for God's sakes!" "She does, Carmen. She knows what you wanted for her. She did her best. She tried harder than anything." "It's not her fault! Wallace Wilkes—" "She told me what he said. And I can see he's got a point. She's got your beauty, Carmen, but she hasn't got your presence. And her voice is very soft. But she's got the hunger. At least, she's got the hunger to please you." Carmen's expression is beginning to take on that "tragic" cast again. "She doesn't have to. I've— I've accustomed myself— Oh, God!" Her eyes pop again, and for a moment the real woman escapes from behind the mask that has stiffened into imprisoning bone upon her countenance. "I worried so much that I was driving her too hard—" "You don't have to worry about that, Carmen." You take one of her hands between yours, and with a quick sidelong glance you dare the hovering waitress to interrupt. "Yes, she feels the pressure, but— Has she ever told you about her 'Cast of Characters'?" Carmen shakes her head. "She's got a whole town full of them. Men, women, husbands, fathers, daughters, best friends, wine aunts, bosses—" "Who are you talking about?" "Characters! That she's created! A whole notebook of them, sketched and described. And they live in her head, Carmen. She knows their personalities, their voices, their quirks. She did some for me!" In fact, Becky showed you nothing of the kind. You are simply describing and repurposing a girl that Paul had in an acting workshop. She was developing a one-woman show. (It would have been great if she herself hadn't been so terrible.) "She can act, Carmen," you assure her. "She's a natural. Her only problem is that she can't project on stage. But, you know." You lean back, and now you gesture the waitress over. "There's a whole industry in Los Angeles where you hardly need to act. And 'projecting' in a close up is the worst thing you could do." A radiance fills Carmen's face. The rest of the meeting is just a mopping-up operation. Next: "A Rake's Progress" |
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