Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel (29 page)

“Ready?” Gus peeled off his navy blue hoodie and threw it on the sofa’s arm, revealing another worn T-shirt, straining against his arms.

“Oh, are we doing this … together?” Marjorie regretted the phrasing immediately. “I mean, we aren’t splitting the movies up?”

“Nope. They only gave us the one suite.” He sat down in one of the rolling chairs, as a wheel spun out, and grabbed a remote control.

“I just thought that’s why I’m here.”

“No, Train Wreck, you’re here to play yin to my yang, for your brilliant insight and taste and your uncanny knack for not boring me. Although, the longer you stand there staring at me, the more I wonder if this was an ill-advised idea. You gonna sit?”

Gus pushed some buttons. When nothing happened, he began checking for loose plugs. Marjorie’s gaze lingered on the space between his T-shirt and the top of his boxer briefs; the sliver of skin drew her eye like a shiny penny. Why was that always attractive to her? Was it some throwback to when skateboarders and homeboys wore jeans that sagged?

Marjorie forced her eyes elsewhere, as the largest screen came to life, with a bright haze like dawn. She put her sweater aside and sat in a rolling chair, as Gus slid across the floor to the light switch and flipped them into darkness. As the first movie began, he sat close up, adjusting the settings; his face was bathed in light, as if he was the screen and the film projected onto him. Marjorie moved her chair another foot away for reasons she could not (
would
not) entertain, and tried to focus on the task at hand.

Over the next several hours, Marjorie wound herself into pretzels from rods to twists. She hugged both legs to her chest, let one dangle, rested her hands behind her head, her head on her hand, her elbow on the arm of the chair. She was slumped low with one leg hanging over the seat’s arm, when it started to tip. She almost face-planted onto the dusty floor. That’s when she moved to the couch.

There were bathroom, water, and sad food breaks (Snickers, Wheat Thins, peanut M&Ms)—and one extended pause when a dark-haired woman named Susan, whom Gus knew from his Paramount assistant days, showed up and insisted that they “must grab a drink—no excuses!” She chided him for not calling, while pawing at his forearms. Marjorie watched, first with amusement, then irritation. Gus didn’t recoil when Susan pressed a palm to his chest or nudged his calf with her open-toe gold sandals. When she winked, he winked back.
What was his problem?

Susan slithered away. They watched movies, movies, and more movies. Eventually, Marjorie awoke—she hadn’t realized she’d been sleeping—with vague impressions of an aimless man driving the country in a rusted Buick. She looked down and realized she was snuggling against Gus’s hoodie, laid over her as a makeshift blanket. It smelled like his soap, grassy and clean; she inhaled. She rubbed her fists against her eyes like a child postnap and stretched, muscles tight, head thick, body chilled. White credits rolled down the black screen. Gus rubbed his neck and sighed, existentially.

“How long was I out?” she asked, startling him. He almost toppled backward, but the chair leveled out in time.

“Jesus! When did you wake up? You’re like a fucking ninja.”

“Did I miss the whole movie?”

“The last one and a half, actually.”

“Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. That’s so unprofessional.”

“It’s fine. You didn’t miss much. Though there was an Old West standoff in a diner parking lot. Lots of dust and french fries. An actual tumbleweed blew by, thanks to some diligent production assistant.” Gus stood. “Wow. I’m ancient. My knees actually creaked.” But he didn’t seem to mind. When Marjorie said the same thing to Mac, he’d been resolute about his youthfulness.

Could Mac O’Shea be getting old?

Never
!

“What’s the next movie?” she asked.

“Nothing tonight. It’s been a crazy long day.”

Marjorie swung her feet onto the floor. “Who knew watching movies could be so exhausting?”

He yawned. “I did.”

“So, what are we—or do you have festival stuff tonight?”

“Nope. No big plans. You hungry?”

“I could go for something besides vending machine junk.”

“How ’bout I take you to Dan Tana’s?”

Marjorie was too dazed to recall her earlier irritation. “I’d love it! What’s a Dan Tana?”

“You’re ridiculous.” Gus laughed. “It’s a red-checkered-tablecloth Italian place, but famous. An old Rat Pack hangout.”

“Perfect. Is anyone else coming?”

“Oh. No. I didn’t make plans. It would just be … us.”

There was a prolonged silence, as their eyes locked.

“Okay, great! Pick me up … now,” said Marjorie, trying to break the tension.

He nodded. “It’s a date. I mean, not a
date.
We don’t even have to go—we could just go to bed.”

“You want to go to bed?”

“I meant
separately.
Obviously. I didn’t mean we could sleep
together.
” Flustered, Gus grabbed his backpack and headed for the door. “Why would I mean that? I wouldn’t. I don’t even know why I’m still talking. I must be really tired. Are you tired? Of course you are. You fell asleep. We should take it easy tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Marjorie stared at him. “Um, Gus.”

He turned reluctantly in the doorway. “Yeah?”

“You’re my ride, remember?”

“Right. Of course. I’ll meet you out front. By the door. You know what I mean.” He left.

Marjorie shook her head. Had any man ever been so concerned with propriety? Here she was, passed out during work, and
he’s
embarrassed because he said something barely suggestive? She stumbled out of the screening room, still disoriented, and found Gus at the front, pacing. They were on different speeds.

“You ready? Good.” He climbed in the car and started the engine without waiting for a reply. “Look, sorry, Marjorie, but something came up. I have to rain-check dinner.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“But you don’t care, right? You’ll have more fun without your boss.”

Marjorie forced a smile. On the way home, they barely spoke. Her mind was still half in REM cycle, half on Gus’s retracted invitation. His was somewhere far off, perhaps down his ex-coworker Susan’s low-cut shirt. Back at the hotel, Marjorie climbed out of the Prius and dropped Gus’s hoodie onto his lap. He looked at the sweatshirt without recognition, picked it up between his thumb and index finger like something corroded, and tossed it into the backseat.

In a last effort to resuscitate what Marjorie had thought was an improved rapport, she said, “Thanks, by the way, for covering me while I slept. That was nice of you.”

“No big deal. I would have done it for anyone. Anyone at all.”

“Well, good, then. I’ll make sure to not feel special.”

“Wait!” he called, as she slammed the door.

Reluctantly, Marjorie popped her head back inside the window frame. “Yeah?”

“I didn’t mean anything before.”

“About what?”

“About going to bed.”

“I’m not going to sue you for sexual harassment—okay, Clarence Thomas? You can stop being so uptight.”

Gus opened his mouth to respond. Instead, he frowned. “Fine. Good. Pick you up tomorrow morning.”

“Great. Fan-fucking-tastic.”

“Just don’t be late,” he barked.

“I’m never late!” Marjorie protested. But he’d already peeled away—a feat in a Prius.

Up in her room, Marjorie pulled on her pink sweatpants and shirt and collapsed into bed. But she was too antsy to enjoy the hotel room.

She opened her laptop, resting it on her crossed legs, and checked her e-mail, then left a message for Mac. They’d had trouble connecting with the time difference. His nightly calls—carrying unsubtle suggestions of phone sex—came too early.

She scanned the
New York Times
online for Gail Collins’s latest column mentioning Mitt Romney’s dog. Marjorie was raised to be politically aware. Her mother was a card-carrying member of the ACLU, NAACP, NPR, NOW, MADD, and several other acronymic organizations. The son of a local politician, her father had government in his blood. But lately she’d tried to stay extra informed. The upcoming election was growing tenser daily, but also—though she hated to admit it—she was impacted by a sobering new influence in her life.

Unable to control herself, Marjorie navigated to Gus’s Facebook page again, searching his list of “Friends” for that woman, Susan. She clapped a hand over her eyes, feeling embarrassed in front of herself.
What am I doing?

She was about to slam the computer shut, when an instant message window popped open:

Madge?

The user’s name, Dinah Levinson, was unfamiliar.

Yes?

Marjorie typed.

It’s Belly!

Of course!
Marjorie grinned. She missed the kid. A chat with Belinda was just what she needed.

Hi Bell! You’re allowed on Facebook?

I’m only on for a second. This is Mom D.’s account.

Does she know you’re using it?

Truth? No.

A few seconds passed.

Are you gonna tell on me or talk?

I’m not going to TELL, Belly. But why don’t I just call you?

No. They’ll hear and this is private! They think I’m in here working on my story.

You should be!

I will, but right now I need your help! It’s Mitch and Snarls.

Uh-oh. Are they fighting over you?

Not exactly. It’s just … You’re going to think I’m crazy.

I doubt it, Bell.

Okay, Mitch totally likes me. He sits with me on the bus every morning and Snarls sits behind us and like pokes me the whole time.

How annoying!

Sort of. Anyway, Mitch asked me to sneak out during free period after lunch and go up to the goat farm.

Look at you, wild child.

It’s no big deal. Our counselor never pays attention anyway ’cause she’s too busy hitting on the swim instructor, Jose, who’s all buff and stuff. It’s just that I know what it means.

What what means?

The goat farm.

It means something other than a smelly place where goats live?

It’s where older kids go to make out and like smoke pot and drink and stuff.

Ah. I see. And you’re nervous? About kissing him?

Yes and no.

Marjorie furrowed her brow:

???

She wasn’t going to let Belinda get pressured by some boy.

If I confess something, do you promise not to laugh?

Belly, if I laughed, you wouldn’t know. I’m 3,000 miles away. But yes. I promise. No LOL.

Okay. The thing is … I don’t like Mitch.

Belly, then forget it. You shouldn’t kiss a boy you don’t like!

No, I know. Aargh. You’re going to laugh at me.

I’m not. Scout’s honor.

Almost a minute passed while Marjorie waited.

I like Snarls.

Marjorie didn’t laugh. Far from it. For some reason, she felt slightly betrayed.

But you said he looks like a bulldog.

I know.

He calls you “Four Eyes.” He broke your macaroni sculpture.

The heart wants what it wants.

Are you sure, Belly? Mitch is going to be the new cute guy next year and you can have him! Starting off 7th grade on the right foot can be important for survival. This isn’t what we planned for you!

I know. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m sorry.

Marjorie took a deep breath and got a handle on herself. Why was she exalting the same values that undid her and making this amazing girl feel bad? Belinda didn’t need some boy to give her confidence; she was unique and independent.

No, Belly. I’m sorry! I am just surprised.

He’s not as cool or good-looking, but he’s smart, you know? And he’s funny. Mitch is nice, but he’s kind of boring. We don’t have much in common. He likes Lady Gaga and I’m over her.

So, have you told Snarls?

Kind of. He wants to take me on a date.

Marjorie could feel Belinda’s happy gamma waves through the computer.

A date! Belly, that’s so cute!

But what do I wear? And what do I tell my moms?

You’re allowed to hang out with friends, right? Tell them that you’re going to the movies, or whatever you’re doing, with a friend. It’s the truth.

Ok. And, since Mom H. has been busier, Mom D. has been letting me go more places by myself. I’m no longer trapped in my personal organic prison.

Marjorie laughed.

How are things between them?

Not good. They’ve lapsed into silence. Three women silent at a dinner table every night is just wrong.

I’m sorry, Bell.

What can you do?

She sounded twice her age.

You can work on your story, for one thing! How’s it coming?

Good! I’m excited to show you when you get home. But what about you?? Are you having fun in LA? Have you seen famous people? Is that jerky boss guy being okay?

Yeah, he’s ok. I think he’s just—

Not that into you? HA!

Marjorie’s heart sank.

Yeah, I guess that’s probably right.

Tell him to call me! I’ll give him a piece of my mind!

As long as your moms aren’t around.

Right. And not after 9:30 ’cause I go to bed.

They said good-bye and Marjorie shut down her computer. How strange that she’d been a sworn kid hater weeks before. Homesick, she dialed Fred.

“Well, if it isn’t Miss Morningstar, calling from the coast! Hi, Roomie. How’s LA?”

Marjorie glanced around, as if an answer lay in the room’s neutral carpet. “Good, good, good. What’s up with you?” Examining her nails, she noticed a chip and went in search of a vanity kit in the bathroom.

“Nada. The Mad Hatters and I—”

“Nope. Bad name.”

“Damn! That’s what Elmo said too. Anyway, we’re playing a show tonight. Same old. But I do have news. Ready?”

“Born ready.”

“I’m going for drinks with James.”

Marjorie exchanged an incredulous look with herself in the mirror. “Fred, how is that news? You see him all the time. Poor guy probably has pictures of you plastered to his ceiling.”

“No! I’m letting him take me on a date. I’m giving him a real shot.”

“Oooh. That’s great! He’s such a sweet guy.”