“Yeah.” I yank the earbuds out, shoving them into my pocket. “You could say something next time, though.”
“Right.” He presses his lips together, but he’s still smiling. “Next time.”
“It’s not funny.”
“I’m not laughing!” He frowns, too dramatic to be real. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m not trying to make you feel bad or anything. Hey, you’ve seen my horrible dancing, so we’re even!”
I can’t help but smile. After all, I’m still kind of pissed at him. I pull my recorder out of my pocket, waving it as I turn it on, but Marius barely takes notice.
“So.” I clear my throat. “Your parents are nice.”
He groans, tossing his head back. It’s so theatrical, I smile despite myself.
“I’m sorry about them,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “My mom—she’s protective, is all. And she knows you’re a journalist and doesn’t want you to take advantage of me.”
“Wow.” I bite my lip. “She’s not a fan of journalists?”
“It’s because I’m young, I think.” He shrugs, looking down. “She’s seen what can happen. But that doesn’t mean she had to be a jerk. I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, shrugging in turn. “My mom can be protective, too—that’s why she made my sister come with me. Your dad is sweet, though. I like his accent.”
“Yeah.” He smiles like he has a secret. “I like yours.”
“What?” I say. “I have an accent?”
“Yeah.” His voice is soft. “A little one.”
I don’t know what to say. I’ve never heard my own accent, but I guess I wouldn’t, since I’ve never lived anywhere but Georgia. My chest and cheeks feel warm.
I clear my throat. Now isn’t the time to get tripped up by a crush. Especially since I have four days until I have to go home. I need to write a profile for my favorite magazine, but I also have to get answers for myself.
“Listen,” I start, taking a deep breath. “This is—well, it’s going to sound really random, but have you heard any bad things about Roy Lennox? Like, there are some allegations that—”
“No.”
I glance up. His eyes are wide, his lips pressed into a straight line, jaw twitching. It’s like he’s seen a ghost. Penny definitely wasn’t lying.
Something about the speed of his reply irritates me. I have the sinking, horrible feeling that Marius knows what Lennox has done and wants to ignore it so he can work with a great director. That’s what Tallulah wanted, too, but she had to deal with weeks of sexual harassment.
“No, what?” I ask. The hard edge makes his eyebrows rise. “No, like you haven’t heard about it?”
“No, like I don’t want to talk about it.” He swallows. It’s no longer endearing. “We’re supposed to talk about the movie.”
I can barely contain my anger.
“Really?” I snap. “Is that what we’ve been doing? Only talking about the movie?”
“I just—” He bites his lip, eyes darting to the recorder in my hand. “We haven’t even started filming the new project and I don’t want to say the wrong thing. It’s not worth it to upset everyone over a rumor.”
I stare at him. I’m angry and disappointed, but what was I expecting? That he would denounce Roy Lennox and pull out of the movie? The internet hardly has any mentions of the allegations. Tallulah’s and Penny’s stories are only told in whispers. Maybe it’s not fair to expect so much from him. But there’s no doubt in my mind now that he knows more than he’s letting on. Otherwise, why would he get so worked up?
I’m angry Marius is able to be so apathetic about this while Penny never had that choice. I’m angry we’re just standing outside a movie theater while Tallulah was crying yesterday. I’m angry about everything, and it’s so hard to hold back.
“We should go inside,” he mumbles, shoving his hands into his pockets.
I follow in silence. I don’t really feel like making an effort to fill it. After all, I don’t have to like him. I just have to write this profile. The only reason I’m here is to get more details to pad out the story, but I have no idea how to do that while we’re watching a movie. I have half a mind to leave.
At the box office, I pay for my ticket. He doesn’t stop me. The hall leading to our theater is filled with old posters. I stop and stare. There’s one for North by Northwest, the iconic scene of Cary Grant running away from a plane. When I told my English teacher how much I loved Hitchcock movies like Psycho and Rear Window, she told me about how he was a jerk to the women he worked with, controlling what they wore and how they acted off-screen. I haven’t watched any of them since.
I never know how to separate the shitty things a person has done from their work. I wish we could have real heroes, perfect people who never hurt others. Einstein was a jerk to his wife. Charles Dickens cheated on his. Martin Luther King Jr. cheated on Coretta when he was on the road, and Frederick Douglass left his wife for a younger white woman. Maybe I find it all disappointing because I put too much faith in people I don’t know.
I can accept whatever happened with MLK and Frederick Douglass because they were freedom fighters. They did so much good that I can deal with the bad. But I don’t know if I can do the same with someone like Woody Allen. And why should I? MLK was MLK. Woody Allen only makes movies with white people in them.
It doesn’t feel right to support the work of people who have hurt others. I don’t want to watch Lennox’s movies after hearing how he treated so many women. But almost everyone has done something horrible. So what’s left? Alice used to nag me about my faves being problematic, and it’s true. Kylo Ren could very well be a characterization of white
