Seeing Stars (29 page)

Think you can make it all go away? Make it just seem like she’s at the store for a minute or something, like she’s coming back?

CARLYLE
just looks at him. They both know she can’t. Suddenly he’s pleading.

But hey, you could try, right? I mean, you could try. You could just try! You don’t know.

CARLYLE
comes around behind him and puts her hands gently over his eyes. The hands are small and inadequate, but they’re what she has to work with.
BUDDY
leans into them.

CARLYLE

(very softly)

Abracadabra!

“Bull’s-eye,” the casting director said softly.

Quinn wiped his eyes and then his nose on his sleeve.

“Now we’ll do it again,” she said.

“What?”

“Now we’ll do it again. And after that, we’ll do it again.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“You’re going to have to. If you’re going to carry a feature film on your back, honey, you’re going to have to be rock solid even on the tenth take.”

Quinn took in a deep breath, and then he did the scene again, and after that, again.

And so she began to teach him. Not like Dee and all those teachers Mimi kept making them work with. She taught him like a director would. They worked on holding back; on building; on breaking and cresting and digging for gold in an empty mine and bringing up just a little bit more. Once or twice she screamed, “God, no.
No, no, no.
You had it right and now you’re fucking it up.”

And of course he
had
had it right and then fucked it up, he just didn’t know
how
. So she taught him that, too.

Two hours later, abruptly, she said, “Enough.”

“What?”

“That’s all—that’s enough. We’re done.”

“I don’t want to be done.”

“A mature actor knows when to say done, but you’re not a mature actor, so I’m saying it for you. We’re done.”

“For how long?”

“For now.”

“Can I come back? When can I come back?”

She regarded him through the same cool eyes that had freaked him out every time he’d seen her, except now he understood that through them, she
saw
him. How many people actually see you? Not many, at least not in Quinn’s experience.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“We’ve done only four pages!”

“That’s all you need. That’s the scene you’ll audition with.”

“But there’s so much more.” He could hear his voice rising, but he couldn’t stop it. “What if they change the scene? What if they choose some random scene and say do that? I won’t know how.”

“Oh, you’ll know how.”

“
I won’t!
I thought I knew this scene when I got here, and look how much of it was crap!”

She took a cigarette out of a pack in her desk drawer, lit it, and narrowed her eyes at him through the smoke. “All right. Be here next Tuesday at six.”

His heart began to race. Mimi had said if he missed Dee’s class one more time, she’d drop him as a client. “I have a class.”

“Skip it.”

“If I do, Mimi says she’ll drop me.”

She smiled out of her old eyes and said softly, “Fuck Mimi Roberts.”

T
HAT NIGHT, AS HE LAY ON HIS AIR MATTRESS IN THE
corner of Baby-Sue’s apartment, trying not to hear Baby-Sue and Jasper screwing in the other room, he thought of the ground rules Evelyn Flynn had laid out for him: he would dump Mimi as a manager and Evelyn would act as Quinn’s manager instead, at least for now. In return, she owned him: he would work whenever, however, and at whatever she told him to.

“I gather you can be difficult,” she said.

“Sometimes.”

“Well, not with me. I don’t have time, and neither do you—they’ll be starting to audition for Buddy in the next few weeks, and you’re not ready. You act up just once and you’re done.”

He nodded.

“Whatever personal life you do or do not have gets checked at the door. Period. You are not my son. I am not your mother. I don’t love you, so I won’t be cutting you slack. That needs to be crystal clear.”

“I get it.”

She also told him flatly that she would not call in favors for him. Whatever he booked, he did on his own, though with the help of her coaching. She’d told him she knew Gus Van Sant, and that she thought he’d give Quinn a fair shake, if Quinn made it that far in auditions; but even so, he was a long shot at best, and he’d have to put everything he had on the table if he was even going to stand a chance.

Quinn was okay with that. He wanted this part more than anything he’d ever wanted before. The role was dark, which suited him; it was a lead, which meant he’d never have to bottom-feed again on guest-star roles that came months apart; and he’d get to work with Gus Van Sant.
Gus Van Sant!

So he called the studio the next morning, before there was any chance Mimi would be at work, and left a message on her phone, saying that he knew she’d drop him because he wouldn’t be at class, so he was going to find a new manager. She’d be relieved about that.
He
was relieved about that. He would have been relieved even if he didn’t have Evelyn Flynn. Mimi was for babies, for little kids, and Quinn was no longer a little kid. Mimi forgot about that all the time, which pissed him off. A lot of things she’d done pissed him off, now that he thought about it—now that he could afford to think about it. She always told him what to wear to auditions and showcases, which was so much crap—he knew how to dress himself. She made him call her after every audition to report in, even if it was for piddly stuff like commercials, which he didn’t give a shit about because he had plenty of money from his monthly allowance, and if it strapped Nelson, so much the better. The asshole had kept his distance the whole week Quinn was home for Christmas, and when he was forced to be in the same room with Quinn he said stuff like, “This isn’t Hollywood. We
work
for a living up here.” Nelson could just go fuck himself. His mom could, too. The only person in his family who really gave a shit was Rory. The kid was cute and nice and he loved Quinn completely and without reservation. His Christmas present to Quinn had been a framed picture of himself with their dog, Schuyler, and near the bottom he’d written the date and then his own first and last name and the name of the dog, as though Quinn might not remember who they were. His mom and Nelson had given him a new sleeping bag and a camping cot so he didn’t have to sleep on the floor anymore. Big fucking deal.

He felt too restless to sit around the apartment after he talked to Mimi’s voice mail, so he pulled on his purple high-tops and turned right at the foot of the stairs, toward Hazlitt & Company. He’d thought it would be nice to see Quatro for a minute, but things turned out to be busy at the salon. Quatro looked harried, and all the clients looked bitchy, and there wasn’t a woman in the place. But just as Quinn was about to move on, Quatro caught sight of him, said something to his client, and came up to the front of the salon.

“Hey, you,” he said. “I’ve only got a second, but I was thinking I might go to the beach after work. Want to come with me?” Like he’d had Quinn on his mind all along. Quinn knew better, but still, it was nice to pretend. There weren’t that many people who wanted to hang out with him, except for scene partners during showcases and acting classes. He was trying to figure out whether this was a pity invitation when Quatro misread his hesitation and said, smiling, “I won’t drug you and carry you off or anything.”

“What? No. I mean, sure, I’d like to,” Quinn said. “Go to the beach, I mean.”

“Okay. So get back here at four fifteen, and I should be done by then. We can figure out the rest on the way.”

Quinn felt a little thrill in his gut and shoved his hands deep in his pockets so he wouldn’t give away how amazing it was that someone wanted to make plans with him. Four o’clock was only an hour and a half from now. Maybe he’d go back to Los Burritos and see if the Hispanic girl was working today. Maybe he’d try to order something in Spanish.

Back out on the street, he stood for a minute and breathed. He was suddenly glad he lived in West Hollywood. When Jasper and Baby-Sue kicked him out, which he bet would be within the next month or so, he hoped he’d be able to find a room to rent someplace over here. He could probably find something. He wasn’t thrilled with the idea of living with someone he didn’t even know, or with a gay person, but he figured there wouldn’t be much of an alternative.

Like Hazlitt & Company, Los Burritos was busy, even though it was two thirty in the afternoon. The Hispanic girl, along with two women, was behind the counter when Quinn got there. He got into her line, even though it was the longest one, and when he got to the front, he smiled at her. She smiled back, but he couldn’t tell if she recognized him or not. She was wearing a pair of earrings shaped like chili peppers. He liked that: you couldn’t wear something like that unless you had a sense of humor. He bet she had a really nice laugh. Maybe he could say something funny and find out. He wasn’t really a funny person, though, at least not in a way that made other people laugh. He was good at shocking them, but no one usually got his jokes.

“
Hola,
” he said. “
Cómo estás?
”

Her eyes lit up. “
Muy bien—y tú? Hablas español?
”

“No, that’s the only thing I know how to say. But I’m thinking about learning.”

She smiled. “
No es difícil,
” she said. “What would you like?”

For a fraction of a second, Quinn thought she meant the question in a general way, and he was going to say, “Everything,” but then he realized she was just trying to take his order. She punched it up on her register and then it was time for him to move on. He’d have liked to stay and see if he could make her laugh, but he didn’t want her to get in trouble, plus he’d run out of things to say, so he just said thank you and paid her and found a table where he could watch her as he ate. She was very, very small, not much bigger than Cassie Foley, and she had a tiny gold cross around her neck, so she must be religious. Was there a saint who watched over small Latinas with crappy food-service jobs who still knew how to smile and mean it? Jasper had told him once that there was a patron saint of waiters—Saint Notburga. Weird name. Quinn liked the idea that there was someone—something—out there watching over her. Maybe he’d ask her about it the next time he stood in her line. Maybe he’d look for a necklace that had a chili pepper charm or something. One that would match her earrings. He could look for one while he waited for Quatro. At least it would give him something to do.

Energized, he finished his food, threw out his trash, and left. He’d like to have seen the little Latina girl smile one last time, but she was busy when he looked over. That was okay. He’d bring her his present and then she’d smile at him.

He could wait.

“S
O IS IT TOO TOURISTY IF WE GO TO
V
ENICE
B
EACH
?” Quatro asked him across the roof of the car when Quinn came back to the salon at four fifteen. “Sometimes you’re just in the mood to see weird, and block for block, Venice Beach has more weird than anyplace I know.” Quatro unlocked his car—a metallic blue BMW convertible, a pretty thing—and climbed behind the wheel. Mimi’s car was a moving trash heap, full of girlie shit and fast-food wrappers, but the BMW was pristine. There was a small trash bag in the back, but it didn’t look like there’d ever been any trash in it. The leather smelled new and supple.

“I’ve never been there,” Quinn said, getting into the car carefully so he didn’t hit or scuff anything. “I mean, I’ve heard about it, but, you know.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No.”

“Well, for God’s sake, then, let’s go there! Where else haven’t you been?”

Quinn shrugged. “I don’t know. Places that you need a car to get to.”

“You don’t have a car?”

Quinn wondered how old Quatro thought he was. He tried to think of something cool to say, and then he decided to hell with it and just told the truth. “I don’t have a driver’s license. It’s hard to find someone to take you to the DMV. My manager took me once, over in Glendale, but I flunked the test.”

“Hey, there’s no shame in flunking. I know a guy who flunked three times before he got it right. He had test anxiety. Did you study the book?”

“Sure,” Quinn lied.

“Well, just look it over again right before you go in.”

“Yeah. I could take the bus over there, too, I guess.”

“Tell me you’ve been to the Santa Monica Pier, at least.”

“Yeah. I audition over there a lot, so.”

“Whew.”

“Yeah, it’s okay.”

Quatro adjusted his seat. “Buckle up, son, because we are out of here.”

T
RAFFIC SUCKED ON THE
405,
OF COURSE, BECAUSE IT
always sucked. But Quatro seemed to take it in stride. On the way out of town they’d stopped at a Ralphs and Quatro bought them bottled water, tortilla chips, and small tubs of salsa, guacamole, and sour cream. Then, from beneath his seat, he pulled three snowy white cloth napkins, which he laid over Quinn’s lap, his lap, and around the stick shift between them. By the time they were even with the Getty Museum, they were crunching away and Quatro was telling Quinn about his high school in Lincoln, Nebraska. “Drama Club, that was my godsend,” he was saying.

“I didn’t think you acted,” Quinn said, surprised.

“I
didn’t
act. I was the costumer. And hair and makeup, of course. I was good, too. I mean, I was
good
good. My mom had been teaching me everything she knew from the time I was five and discovered her makeup. My dad would leave in the morning and out would come the jars and wands and lotions, and I was in heaven.
Heaven.
My mother was surprisingly accepting, for a native Nebraskan.”

“That’s good,” Quinn said, because he couldn’t think of anything better to say. And it
was
good. His own experience was that his generation was not only as homophobic as any other, but more outspoken about it, too. Gay, not gay—suddenly it was on everybody’s tongue, everybody’s business. He’d been a target for gay-bashing since before he could remember. He didn’t know why, except that he’d been a small kid, and spindly, and of course he hadn’t been able to sit still for five minutes on end so he was everybody’s nuisance, teachers included. If they didn’t have another name for you—and most of the kids still didn’t know about
AD
HD then, even though it wasn’t that long ago—they called you gay. One day he’d gotten a note at their house that said,
You’re a queer faggot and you’re ugly, too. Suck my dick.
Nelson had bawled him out, like it had been Quinn’s fault that someone had sent him hate mail. (“Well, you must have done something to provoke it, bud, because that kind of trash doesn’t just appear on its own.”)