Chapter 3
I ended up buying a bunch of records from a three-dollar bin in a massive record shop in Squirrel Hill and got some frames to go with them.
I got some posters, too, for bands I’d never even heard of—Michael and the Argonauts, The Bitter Pill—and put them up around the apartment.
The walls felt slightly less oppressive afterward.
I took a nap. I wrote in my notebook. My quiet afternoon reminded me of being a kid with my mom and my brother, how we’d kill time by playing this game we called “advanced charades” where you’d try to get someone to guess a movie by silently acting as one of the characters.
Hero Walk just so, with your shoulders back and a slight slouch in your legs, and Mom might correctly guess Reservoir Dogs.
I remembered once my brother extended his arm out from his face like an elephant’s trunk and made himself seem so light, up on his tiptoes, like something was pulling him up into the air, and even though Mom and I both knew it was Dumbo, we didn’t say anything, because we were so astonished by him. He’s a nursing student now in Dallas.
I then scrolled Instagram for a while and posted a picture I’d taken with Kai.
I tagged him and went through his posts.
There were only a few pictures from the past year, all in New York City with friends.
No one person was consistently with him, which made me think he either didn’t have a romantic partner or didn’t want Instagram to know about them.
My posts over the last year had been calibrated to counter any child-star narratives.
No late-night party pics. No nostalgic looks back at the good old days, or pictures with my old costars.
I got fewer likes than before, but I was building a different kind of credibility with an eye toward being a grown-up actor.
Of course, after six years on a show about a child talent agency run by teenagers—once called “an insufferable cacophony of earnest cringe” by Time Out New York—a refined Instagram refresh didn’t do much to distance me from the character I’d played for so long.
But I don’t mind being conflated with the girl from that show.
I am earnest. Irony bores me. And “cringe” is what people who can’t feel things call feelings.
I was still scrolling when I got a text from Kai. How are the apartment walls?
I sent him a picture that had his drawing in it. Slightly less depressing. How’s your place?
He sent me back a picture of his wall. Every inch was covered with tacked-up Warhol prints. Just staring at this wondering if they’re gonna fire me tomorrow.
You want to run lines?
Sure.
_____
So he came over to my apartment. He lay on my couch and I sprawled across the adjacent leather love seat. We ran the first three days’ worth of scenes together. He was nervous that night even without the cameras.
“It’s all so pretentious,” he complained at one point. I’d just taken a pizza out of the oven and he was absolutely demolishing it. “How am I supposed to sound real while also saying, ‘What we need, dear, are new words for the old prayers’? Who talks like that?”
“But you don’t have to sound real to life,” I said.
“You only have to sound real to the movie. That’s what my acting coach always says.
‘Don’t be real. Be real to the material.
’ Anyway, you know this guy. Maybe you don’t know his particular trauma, maybe you’ve never interned at a magazine or lived through 1986 or been abused by your parents, but I’d guess those sad eyes of yours have seen plenty of what Jude has seen. ”
“I…just, the only way for me to get to the really intense stuff, like that scene where he confesses everything to you about his brother’s death and his parents and everything, the only way I can get into that stuff is by thinking about the worst thing that ever happened to me, which I’m not looking forward to. ”
“Your approach is that personal, huh?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. Anyway, what was your childhood like?”
“That’s abrupt.”
“What you said was good. I’m not gonna be real. I’m gonna be real to the material. So we’re moving on.”
“To my childhood.”
“Yes.”
“My childhood was…public.”
“I never saw that show you were in. The only thing I knew about you growing up is when you had to, like, fire your mother or something? That was in the news at some point. Because she stole your money or something.”
“Yes, or something. She’s dead now, so I got some of the money back.”
“I’m not sure whether to say I’m sorry.”
“And I’m not sure whether to be sorry.” Deep down, acting is listening.
Good actors tend to be good listeners, too, good enough—for example—to know that when someone changes a topic so abruptly, they’re dodging something specific.
But to act isn’t to pry, only to be willing to listen more. “How was your childhood?”
“Private. I grew up in Indianapolis. My mom teaches English. My dad sells dental supplies and loves race cars. I turned out to be bad at reading and driving, so I was a slight disappointment.”
“Look at you now. In a proper Hollywood movie at the age of just, what are you, twenty-one?”
“Yeah. I keep thinking, ‘Is this the first time I’m gonna be in a proper movie, or is this the only time? Is this my first butterfly-stomached day before, or my only one?’ You never know with acting.” He grabbed another piece of pizza. “You want more?” he asked. I shook my head.
“You know this guy,” I told him again.
He wiped grease off his mouth with the back of his hand. “I just want to disappear, you know? That’s what I like about acting. I get a break from being my goddamned self.”
We kept talking about acting for a while—I told him Alfred Hitchcock once said that actors are cattle and should be treated as such—and then Kai stood up to leave. He thanked me for the pizza before saying, “Okay. I’ll see ya tomorrow. I love you.”
“What now?”
“I love you.”
“You what-in-the-hell, Kai?”
“I’m sorry if I shouldn’t have said that but I like saying it if you don’t mind. Love is big and reckless so I just say it whenever I feel it. You welcomed me into your apartment to run lines because I was nervous. You gave me good advice. You put my little drawing up on your wall. I love you.”
“Wow. Well, thanks, Kai.”
“I don’t love you a lot or anything. But a little. I love you a little.”
“Okay. I like you a medium amount. A socially acceptable amount.”
“Great. See you tomorrow.”