“I am so sorry,” he says, pulling off his glasses. His accent is stronger than his wife’s, but there’s something endearing about it. “Isabelle can be a bit brusque, I’m afraid. Sit, sit, don’t just stand there. I am Henri. We know your name. Marius says it often.”
My cheeks burn as I sit down across from him, holding my bag close to my body. He isn’t so bad. It’s just that I can hear quick speaking from the other room in a language I don’t understand. I don’t get it. I’m sure she’s upset he brought a journalist to their home, but I still wonder if this is because I’m an American Black girl or fat or both.
“Marius has told us much about you,” Mr. Canet says. The skin under his eyes crinkles when he smiles. “Your work is impressive for someone so young. Are your parents proud?”
I nod, trying to force myself to calm down. Just breathe. Just breathe.
“That is good.” He nods, pleased. “Parents should be proud of their children.”
“Are you proud of Marius?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Immensely. I see him on-screen and feel awe.”
There’s something about the way he says it—so intense, so eager—that reminds me of Marius. This must be where he gets it from. It’s sweet. I’m glad Marius isn’t one of those kids who have to weather the long, scary journey to Hollywood alone.
“Yeah,” I say, rubbing my fingers together. “He seems to have that effect on lots of people.”
Henri beams just as Marius appears again. His mother follows. I can’t read her expression, but she seems less angry than she was before. It’s Marius who looks irritated.
“Ne sois pas si fâché. Elle est belle,” his mom is saying. Marius shakes his head, taking a seat at the table. “Je veux juste que tu comprennes—”
“Maman.” He shakes his head. “Not now.”
“Josie speaks English,” Henri adds. Something tells me that’s why she’s using French in the first place. “It is not fair to her.”
“I am sorry, Josie,” she says, looking at me for the first time. “I just had something urgent to discuss with my son. You understand.”
I nod, even though I don’t really get it. What was so important to talk about that she couldn’t wait until I left?
“We were just discussing Marius’s accomplishments,” Henri says, smiling as he puts his glasses on. “And how proud we are.”
Marius groans, tilting his head as he pushes back his chair, balancing it on two legs. His mother grins, pushing the chair forward so he doesn’t fall. It all seems so normal that I have the sudden urge to take a picture.
“Incredibly proud,” Isabelle says, staring down at him. “You cannot possibly begin to understand.”
Something passes between the two of them. Isabelle’s face softens. Marius covers his eyes, smiling up at her with most of his face hidden. Henri shakes his head, fond. I don’t understand, but I don’t think I’m meant to, and that’s fine with me. Some things are just nice to watch.
@JosieTheJournalist: do you ever look back on things that happened to you and realize they weren’t okay and then, like, have an existential crisis
The next day, Penny and I meet at a coffee shop.
It’s sort of a gallery and an eatery where you’re supposed to look at the art and eat at the same time. I get in line and Penny shuffles behind me. Standing in line normally freaks me out, because I have to know what I’m eating and how I’m going to pay for it and how much money to give all before it happens so I don’t fumble and mess up, especially when I’m given change.
I clear my throat. There’s something I need to ask Penny, but I’m not sure how to bring it up.
“So…,” I say. “How many women, um, do you think…?”
“Have a story like mine?” Penny bites her lip. “I’m not sure. I’ve been trying to make a list of people I know.”
I reach in my pocket, pulling out a messy pile of bills. There’s a twenty. Will that be enough? I glance up, looking for the cheapest thing on the menu.
“How did talking with Julia go? She said it was cathartic to have someone listen.”
I wonder again if I’m the right person to do this. I don’t want Penny to see my uncertainty, though. Not right now.
“It went pretty well. As well as talking about sexual assault can go.”
“That’s so good! Julia will talk about this to anyone.”
“Not anyone.”
“Obviously not anyone,” she says. “But you made her comfortable enough to ask around for other people who want to come forward. That’s a really great step, Josie. I’m trying to think of who else to reach out to. I sent a few emails to Tallulah because we’re at the same agency—”
“Tallulah Port?”
“Yeah,” Penny says. “We’ve met once or twice. She hasn’t answered yet, though.”
“Next?”
We step to the front of the line. As Penny places her order, I think back to everything I know about Tallulah Port. I’ve always thought she was cool, but everyone did in 2011, when she won basically every award for her leading role in Burning Heat. She’s gotten another Oscar nomination since then and she’s not even thirty yet.
“And for you?”
I blink. The server stares at me.
“Um,” I say, “I’ll have what she’s having.”
After paying, Penny and I head toward the seating area. There’s art everywhere—gigantic prints of plants hanging from the walls, glass sculptures and figurines encased on tables around the room, and a watercolor mural of a map.
“Anyway,” Penny says, tossing her hair back and sitting down, “I’m not sure how many women there are, like, overall. But I’m sure there are a lot. We should try to include anyone who wants to talk, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know.” I click my pen. “I’ve never done this before. If everyone talks as much as Julia—”
“I don’t think everyone is going to talk as much as Julia.”
“Yeah, well.” I rub my forehead. “I don’t blame them. If
