who’d made the long-distance call, who’d planned the audition, who’d called in favors. “It’s time for you to get out of Providence,” she’d said, “and get some
real
theatrical experience under your belt.”
She could have added
and get away from that boyfriend,
but she didn’t have to. Flo didn’t approve of Billy. She didn’t approve of boyfriends in general, but she’d seen me come to class with reddened eyes and no focus. She’d seen how I’d dress hurriedly, afraid to be late meeting him.
I couldn’t have marked how it happened, or when, and I didn’t love him less, but there was a pulling and a tearing now to our times together. There was an anger in him that would come out if I couldn’t see him, or if I had to work late, or if he saw me talking to a boy at school. He insisted on picking me up at the end of my shift at the Riverbank on Saturday nights, and after my Drama Club meetings. At first I was flattered and grateful, but sometimes I’d want to stay and joke with the waiters about my shift, or gossip with the other actors in the school play. Nobody asked me out for a soda anymore, or to run lines. They knew Billy would be coming.
When Billy wasn’t with me, he was with Jamie. They had a private world of photographs and drawings and talk of light and moments caught in time, truth captured in a frame. I didn’t share their language, but I loved to hear their talk wash over me. It was like a lullaby, making me feel safe and lucky that my brother was my boyfriend’s best friend.
Jamie and Billy had driven me to the Cape in June. It had been unseasonably chilly, and we’d had our last lunch together bundled up in sweatshirts and then had said our good-byes. I’d noticed how Billy looked over the otheractors and saw how the light shut off in his eyes. But instead of being angry, he looked scared, and that melted my heart.
Jamie had given me a quick hug — he hated good-byes — and had gone back to the car while I’d kissed Billy good-bye.
“I love you, too,” I’d said, and was relieved when it made him smile. “The summer will go before you know it.”
“Are you nuts? I’m working for my father, remember? It’s going to be the longest summer in history. Especially without you.”
I’d walked him back to the car and had gone around to the passenger side to say good-bye to Jamie.
“Take care of him for me,” I’d told my brother. Jamie had nodded. Next to Billy’s dark handsomeness, Jamie’s fairness stood out. During the winters his paleness was odd, his strawberry hair freakish, his freckles standing out against his white skin, but in the summers his hair lightened to a shade close to blond, and his skin turned golden. If you saw the two of them walking down the street, you’d see heads turn at the two sides of a coin, the darkness and then the golden beauty of the two of them.
“Sure thing,” he’d told me. “Break a leg. And remember to keep some heads-up pennies around.”
At the end of the summer, the beginning of the summer seemed like a different life. Under a full moon I drank my ginger ale and tried not to think about home, where I’d be starting senior year. Because tonight, I was just one of the cast and crew, and there was a movie star in our midst.
Jeffrey Toland had been Spencer Tracy’s little brother and Carole Lombard’s husband. He’d kissed Bette Davis. He’d been a cowboy, a judge, a gangster, a song-and-dance man, a sailor who died in the Pacific. And now he sat on a wooden Adirondack chair — the best chair, the one that didn’twobble — drinking beer with everybody else. It was the first time he’d joined us. As the star, he didn’t room with the rest of us but stayed in a guest cottage on an estate. All that summer he’d left immediately after the show to go to restaurants and parties, driving a blue convertible loaned by another wealthy family that then got to decorate its dinner parties and lobster bakes with his Hollywood
real
theatrical experience under your belt.”
She could have added
and get away from that boyfriend,
but she didn’t have to. Flo didn’t approve of Billy. She didn’t approve of boyfriends in general, but she’d seen me come to class with reddened eyes and no focus. She’d seen how I’d dress hurriedly, afraid to be late meeting him.
I couldn’t have marked how it happened, or when, and I didn’t love him less, but there was a pulling and a tearing now to our times together. There was an anger in him that would come out if I couldn’t see him, or if I had to work late, or if he saw me talking to a boy at school. He insisted on picking me up at the end of my shift at the Riverbank on Saturday nights, and after my Drama Club meetings. At first I was flattered and grateful, but sometimes I’d want to stay and joke with the waiters about my shift, or gossip with the other actors in the school play. Nobody asked me out for a soda anymore, or to run lines. They knew Billy would be coming.
When Billy wasn’t with me, he was with Jamie. They had a private world of photographs and drawings and talk of light and moments caught in time, truth captured in a frame. I didn’t share their language, but I loved to hear their talk wash over me. It was like a lullaby, making me feel safe and lucky that my brother was my boyfriend’s best friend.
Jamie and Billy had driven me to the Cape in June. It had been unseasonably chilly, and we’d had our last lunch together bundled up in sweatshirts and then had said our good-byes. I’d noticed how Billy looked over the otheractors and saw how the light shut off in his eyes. But instead of being angry, he looked scared, and that melted my heart.
Jamie had given me a quick hug — he hated good-byes — and had gone back to the car while I’d kissed Billy good-bye.
“I love you, too,” I’d said, and was relieved when it made him smile. “The summer will go before you know it.”
“Are you nuts? I’m working for my father, remember? It’s going to be the longest summer in history. Especially without you.”
I’d walked him back to the car and had gone around to the passenger side to say good-bye to Jamie.
“Take care of him for me,” I’d told my brother. Jamie had nodded. Next to Billy’s dark handsomeness, Jamie’s fairness stood out. During the winters his paleness was odd, his strawberry hair freakish, his freckles standing out against his white skin, but in the summers his hair lightened to a shade close to blond, and his skin turned golden. If you saw the two of them walking down the street, you’d see heads turn at the two sides of a coin, the darkness and then the golden beauty of the two of them.
“Sure thing,” he’d told me. “Break a leg. And remember to keep some heads-up pennies around.”
At the end of the summer, the beginning of the summer seemed like a different life. Under a full moon I drank my ginger ale and tried not to think about home, where I’d be starting senior year. Because tonight, I was just one of the cast and crew, and there was a movie star in our midst.
Jeffrey Toland had been Spencer Tracy’s little brother and Carole Lombard’s husband. He’d kissed Bette Davis. He’d been a cowboy, a judge, a gangster, a song-and-dance man, a sailor who died in the Pacific. And now he sat on a wooden Adirondack chair — the best chair, the one that didn’twobble — drinking beer with everybody else. It was the first time he’d joined us. As the star, he didn’t room with the rest of us but stayed in a guest cottage on an estate. All that summer he’d left immediately after the show to go to restaurants and parties, driving a blue convertible loaned by another wealthy family that then got to decorate its dinner parties and lobster bakes with his Hollywood
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