“I’m sorry,” she says. “Savannah and Ashley and Jessica—none of them were trying to be weird when you walked in. They thought you might be mad at them. You looked a little pissed when you came in.”
“Well, I’m not,” I say. “It’s just weird that you’re hanging out with them.”
“I mean,” she says, “I get lonely when I’m by myself.”
I glance up at her. She isn’t scowling or laughing at me. She’s being serious.
It’s not like she’s been going to events or interviews with me anymore. I figured she’d go out and explore the cities by herself, but maybe she isn’t into that. Maybe she needs to be around other people. I don’t know. This is the first time she’s apologized in a while. I’m not even mad, so it’s more than surprising.
I email her the audio file.
I’ve never had someone help me out with work. Alice puts in her earbuds and I go back to organizing Marius quotes. The hotel room is silent save for the sound of typing and Alice’s occasional question. But it’s a nice quiet.
“Hey,” Alice says after a while. I don’t glance up from the computer. I’m in the middle of an essay on French film theory, which doesn’t exactly have to do with Marius but might make for a great opening paragraph.
“Hey,” she repeats. “Josie. Did you listen to any of this?”
“No. That was the point of you typing it out.”
“Yeah, whatever.” She gives me the side-eye. “Anyway, they were talking about you.”
“Who?”
“Marius and—I think his mom?”
I stiffen.
“I figured,” I say, trying to keep my eyes on my laptop. She’s shared two whole typed pages of Google docs with me. “Did they say anything horrible?”
“Shouldn’t you be able to tell?”
“I take Spanish, not French.”
“Maggie took French.”
“And you took it because she did. I decided to branch out.”
“Whatever.” She rolls her eyes. “His mom said you were beautiful. It sounded like she was sort of mocking him, but she didn’t say anything mean.”
I pause. She can probably see the pink in my cheeks. I hate this. If she’s messing around with me, I might actually cry.
“But it’s not like you’re fluent in French,” I say instead.
“Josie.” She kisses her teeth. “I’ve been taking French since sophomore year in high school. And I’m minoring in French at Spelman. Didn’t you hear me talking about it at Thanksgiving?”
Oh. I must’ve tuned her out. Now I feel like a bad sister.
“Well,” I say after a second, “what exactly did she say?”
“I told you,” she says, glancing back at her own laptop. “She mentioned you being beautiful. But she told him to be careful. So maybe it’s because you’re obviously not French or because you look like you’re thirteen. I’m not sure.”
I toss a pillow at her, hoping it will draw attention away from my cringy expression; I want to smile, but my lips aren’t sure where to move. I’m not surprised, exactly. It’s a very mom thing to say.
“Oh my God,” Alice says, tossing her head back dramatically. “This is disgusting. You should see the look on your face. I’m gonna have to tell Maggie about this.”
“No way,” I say. “Don’t you dare.”
“I’m gonna Snap her.” Alice holds up her phone. “Say cheese!”
I flip her off. She takes the picture anyway, grinning as she types.
“Jesus,” I say, a laugh in my voice. “Keep your mouth shut for once.”
“I’m morally obligated to share. It’s big-sister privilege.”
I toss my other pillow at her face, and she falls off the bed with a laugh.
@JosieTheJournalist: i feel like there’s a difference between problematic faves and faves who ruin other people’s lives but whatever
On Thursday, I’m supposed to meet Marius at some old movie theater, but all I can think about is the other story I’m working on. About the interviews I went through last night.
We don’t seem similar on the surface; those women are rich, white actresses who live in California. Julia is more than twice my age. Penny had a completely different childhood. Tallulah seems like she was grown in a lab, a perfect, beautiful movie star.
But we all want.
Penny wants to continue her career, be a real actress who wins awards and gets leading roles. Tallulah wanted an Oscar. Julia wanted her career. I know what it’s like to be a girl who wants. I want so much that sometimes it tears me apart. I want to be a writer and to be successful, to feel fulfilled. I want to make things and be seen and understood, at least by a few people. What girl doesn’t want that? What person doesn’t want that?
I hit the next song on my phone. Marius still isn’t here. It’s cold, but I’d rather wait outside the theater than go in.
I’ve been trying to listen to happy music to calm myself down, but it makes me feel guilty. Should I be able to feel calm when these women are dealing with this every day? I used to tell Maggie how anxious I get about things like police brutality and institutional racism. She’d say I can’t do anything if I’m not healthy myself.
She’s right. But I still feel bad that I can sit here on this bench listening to Outkast while Tallulah is keeping this gigantic secret to herself. I force a deep breath. “Ms. Jackson” is playing. I rewind to the beginning, shutting my eyes as I start to sing.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Jackson
I am for realllll”
My eyes open as I hold my hands to my chest, popping and locking, but he’s here. Standing in front of me. Trying not to smile. I almost fall off my seat.
“Hey, hey,” Marius says, a laugh in his voice. “I’m sorry! I like ‘Ms. Jackson,’ too. I just didn’t want to bother you because you looked like you
