Chapter 5 #2
Another pang of loss echoes off the first. We were really close. Not so much anymore. Which is mostly my fault. We talk or text somewhat regularly, just checking in on our group chat, but I haven’t seen either of them in person since my forced seclusion.
It strikes me then that this is the first time Spencer has made any reference at all to the fact that he’s aware of the show or my fame.
Except for the teasing moment when we first met, when he said I look nothing like Vivien Hart and winked at me.
Otherwise, he’s been all business and normalcy.
No probing questions, no gushing over me or asking about the show or the other stars—who are more famous than I am, since I went into hiding.
Is it weird that part of me wishes he would be more impressed with me? After spending years avoiding that exact thing from people in general?
I need more therapy.
Maybe I ruined it by showing up in handcuffs with an old man in stripper clothes.
It’s simple attraction. Nothing more. I can’t help it, he’s tall, annoyingly handsome, and has great hands, currently clenched around the steering wheel.
And now I’ve been staring at Spencer for at least a minute without speaking, and his brow is creasing with concern.
I clear my throat and reach for the door. “Okay. Thanks for the ride. I’ll see you later.” I give him an awkward little wave before hopping out.
So embarrassing.
For a moment I stand there on the snow-covered sidewalk, staring up at the theater.
The marquee stretches nearly the length of the building, old art deco lines climbing upward in geometric tiers. Faded gold trim traces the edges, and the words The Palace spill down the curved facade in tall vertical letters.
The marquee reads: Casablanca.
The L is slightly askew.
In the bright winter sun, it looks . . . old. The paint is peeling in spots, a few bulbs along the sign are burnt out, and the neon tubes are dull and lifeless in the daylight.
It isn’t quite how I remember. It’s older. More worn out.
Kind of like me.
Spencer’s truck is still idling at the curb. Is he waiting for me to go inside?
I head for the door, fishing the key from my pocket. Nerves make my fingers tremble. Why am I nervous? Is it because I haven’t been back since that one magical summer, and I’m worried it won’t hold that same charm, and I have no idea what I’ve actually gotten myself into?
Maybe. Probably. I mean, of course.
I take a deep breath and unlock the door, waving once more to Spencer before opening the door and stepping inside. It swings shut behind me, locking out the rest of the world.
I breathe in butter, sugar, and stale popcorn.
Dust motes float like glitter in the sunbeams pouring in from the glass doors behind me. I rub my arms through my coat. The lobby is chilly. They probably turn the heat down to save money.
I move slowly across the red carpet, my boots crunching faintly over grains of salt someone must have tracked in during the last storm. The carpet itself is faded and worn down by a thousand footsteps, earned over decades. A few stains linger, ghosts of spilled sodas and late-night movie mishaps.
The walls are textured panels of gold and turquoise, which shouldn’t go with the red carpets, but somehow, it works.
The popcorn machine in the corner is empty. The concession stand racks are half full of Milk Duds, Junior Mints, and M&M’s.
Behind the concession stand is a kitchen with a large fridge, oven, and microwave for heating up pizzas, pretzels, hot dogs, and nachos.
My gaze drifts to the framed posters lining the walls, sticking on my favorites. It Happened One Night. The Apartment. The Philadelphia Story.
I head deeper into the theater.
The lobby curves into a hallway that leads to the bathrooms, the reel storage room, and then beyond that a narrow staircase to the projector booth, and finally the office.
The bathrooms are like I remember, very old Hollywood. An attached carpeted room has a few red velvet chaise lounges. The sinks have Hollywood vanity mirrors. Most of the bulbs are burnt out.
The reel room door is locked. There was a special key for it, a gold skeleton key.
The projector room is unlocked, and I turn on the bulb overhead before making my way up the stairs to look out into the darkened theater.
On hot summer afternoons, when the rest of the town baked in the heat, I used to sneak up here with a book and a soda.
The little square window looked out over the screen, and I’d watch the movies backward from the beam of light shooting across the room.
It was like having my own secret balcony over another world.
Halfway back down the steps, I stop and crouch down by the baseboard, running my hand along the wood until I find the little knob.
I pull it back.
It’s still there. Hidden behind a tiny baseboard door, a tiny picture of Marilyn Monroe in a bright pink dress and diamonds, men passed out on the bright red dais behind her. Her smile is bright and wide, her gloved hands pressed against her chest.
For some reason, it makes me want to cry.
I keep going.
The office door is down the hall on the right. It’s dark and small, a single desk and an ancient computer with a few chairs and filing cabinets.
I circle back and push open the double doors to the auditorium.
Dim aisle lights glow along the steps between the rows of seats, casting soft amber halos on the worn red velvet. The ceiling stretches high above me, disappearing into shadow.
The seats are old but sturdy, their fabric faded in places from years of moviegoers sliding in and out.
Toward the back, the rows shift into little two-seater love seats.
Beverly always said they were for couples who wanted to pretend they were in a 1940s date movie, and she loved to move people around and force them to sit together. Always the matchmaker.
I wander down the aisle, running my hand over the tops of the chairs and picking up dust.
On my fourteenth birthday, we sat right in the middle of the empty theater with bowls of popcorn and a lopsided cake from the bakery down the street.
She programmed a whole lineup of classic movies with birthday scenes: Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Harold and Maude, The Birds.
That last one was slightly traumatizing when all the birds attacked the kids’ party, but still cool.
I’ll never forget the flicker of the projector, the smell of cotton candy, the way the huge screen made everything bigger than life.
Beverly always said The Palace was like a person. We generalize people, think of them based on the things we see on the surface. But when you dig a little deeper, that’s where the good stuff is. That’s when it gets interesting.
Beneath the dirt and scuffs and faded carpet, the magic is still there.
I want to breathe it back to life. Purpose flows through my veins. I can totally do this. First, I want to find the secret passageway. It runs from the projection room into the theater. There’s a chair near the back that swivels open.
Before I can find it, distant laughter catches my attention.
Must be Daphne.
What if she hates me? What if she only likes me because of my fame, because of who she thinks I am? Maybe she’ll treat me like a normal person. Everyone else has, so far.
There’s only one way to find out.