Chapter 19 #2
He did let it slip that he used to have a childhood crush on Stephanie from LazyTown , but that’s about it.
“I think the only way that’s going to happen is if, you know—” He motions both hands toward me as if to remind me this deal is not one-sided.
Double dang it.
I look away, thinking about how I keep getting faced with this same issue—chances to be a little more honest than I’m comfortable
being—which is causing me to ask myself why I hold back. I never had my diary shared with the entire student body. Nobody
ever pantsed me in gym class.
But when it comes to opening up, it’s like I walk right up to the line, inch my toe forward, even make the decision to spend
the summer being my true, authentic self, but then I dive for the safety and comfort of solid ground.
Arthur saw right through that.
I haven’t told my mom or my friends the truth about New York or this job. That it’s not at all what I thought.
Do I need to practice telling the truth? The whole truth?
And is Booker a safe person to practice with?
A few years ago, I enrolled in a master class with a renowned acting coach. Her method of creating characters was to name
the emotion you needed to portray and then relate it to something in your own life. Your character is feeling alone? Tap into
a time when you felt alone in your real life, roll around in those memories, and bring that emotion to the present. As you mined that experience for every feeling it produced, you began to get a better understanding of the character.
Unfortunately for me, that mining meant a lot of probing questions in front of a group of people. And that whole exercise proved to me that, while I’d spent
years studying human nature, I didn’t really understand my own.
This particular professor wasn’t deterred by that, since these questions were meant to expose our emotional blockages, and
eventually, she hit a nerve that brought me to tears.
I still think about that.
I’ve pushed aside a lot of emotions over the years. Anything uncomfortable or sad or scary. Any movies that don’t have a happy
ending. Anything that even remotely resembles love or the possibility of love. Anything that might lead to me feeling out
of control or like I need another person.
And although I know that professor had a lot to do with exposing this to me, I don’t know how to break out of it.
“I’m afraid of small spaces,” Booker says now, drawing me back to the present.
I watch him for a long moment. I’ve made no promise of reciprocation, but he’s still answered my question.
“Really?” I ask. Despite his claim, he seems like the kind of person who wouldn’t be afraid of anything.
“Yeah. Super claustrophobic. Tunnels, heights—”
“Laundry rooms?” I cross the room to the coffeepot and pull out a mug.
“There’s a window in there, plus the door was open, so that one’s okay.”
“Do you want some?”
He holds up a hand. “I’m good, thanks.”
I add cream and a little bit of sugar, then turn and find him watching me.
“And you’re obviously afraid of small, cute animals,” he says.
“That creature probably wanted to eat my bones.”
He laughs. “You’re ridiculous.”
I nod. “Yeah. I know.” I hesitate, then admit, “And... also I’m not crazy about flying over water.”
“So no trips to England? Don’t they have something like Broadway over there?”
“The West End. I mean, that would be amazing,” I say. “But they’d have to drug me to get me there.” And then I squint over
at him.
He watches me, almost like he’s trying to solve a mystery too. “Anything else you’re afraid of?”
Oh yeah. Lots.
Failing.
Everyone finding out I’m a fraud.
Letting everyone down.
Having to move back home.
Not making it.
I shake away the barrage of unwanted thoughts. “I didn’t agree to this whole ‘being honest with back-and-forth questions’
idea. Plan. Thing.” I take a sip of my coffee, mostly to avoid looking at him.
“Yeah, I know,” he responds. “It’s fine.”
I look off to the side. “But...”
His head tilts slightly, a clear question waiting there for me. “But...?”
I say in a singsong, “I’ve been thinking about it.”
He seems to be trying not to look smug, but he’s failing. “Oh, you have?”
“Yeah, a little. I just...” I open the door to my heart a crack. “I have a hard time talking to people in my real life,
so I thought this might be different.”
He frowns. “Isn’t this your real life?”
I half laugh. “No.”
The frown deepens, and I worry that I’ve offended him. This is his real life—not just some pit stop on the road to hopefully bigger and better things.
“Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean—” No, I meant it exactly the way it came out. I make a mental note to stop being a big, fat
jerk. “I think you made a good point when you said you were safe because after this summer we won’t ever see each other again.”
At that, his face falters. He quickly recovers. “That’s not exactly what I said.”
“Well, that’s what I heard,” I quip. “Don’t let your facts get in the way of my argument.”
He chuckles.
“Maybe I just—” I look away. “I’m used to, you know. Acting.”
He smirks.
“Real-life stuff, emotions, they’re... messy.”
“And that’s bad?” he asks.
“Not... bad. Just. I don’t like to dwell.”
“You don’t like to feel.”
I go still. “I’m an actor. All I do is feel.”
And right now, I’m feeling safe and vulnerable at the same time.