Chapter 39
Maybe your ideas will end up in the movie.
That’s the best she can hope for, apparently.
Maggie was so upset on her way out, she crashed right into Cassie.
The screenwriting books in Cassie’s arms went flying.
As Maggie helped her pick them up, Cassie told her they were for her new screenwriting class, but she barely heard her.
How could that have gone so badly? Ingrid didn’t even give her a thread of hope, not even an insincere I’ll see what I can do.
“You should go to the studio,” Willa fumes.
“No way.” She feels cold all over and grabs a throw blanket. She wraps herself up like a burrito, wobbles into her room, and collapses on her bed.
“They should know it’s your story. I’ll bet legally you have some right—”
“Legally? You know I can’t pull that card.”
“Why not?”
“Because I still need her, Willa!” Maggie wails. “Not only is she paying for my whole life right now, but I need her for my book!” Her voice cracks. “Now everything’s fucked-up between us, and I don’t know what that means for the option, and I hate myself for still needing her help.”
Willa reaches out a hand. “You don’t need her help.”
“Actually…” Maggie shakes her head. She knows Willa means well, but she doesn’t need to hear her aspirational mantras right now. “I do.”
“Repeat after me: I build my foundation and create the life I want.”
Maggie puts a pillow over her head.
“You just have to believe in yourself. Look at me, I’m going to acting classes! I’m taking control of my artistic journey!”
Maggie almost blurts out, Guess what, those Visa cards that keep coming in the mail every day? It’s all because of Ingrid’s money! But she holds back the words just in time.
Willa studies her face. “What?”
“Nothing.” Maggie says she’s just tired. The transfusion took a lot out of her.
Their doorbell rings. Willa throws Maggie a concerned look, then goes to open the door. A minute later, her parents are standing in her room with a bag of groceries from the Chinese supermarket.
“What are you guys doing here?” Maggie asks, taking her fortress of blankets down and getting up from her bed.
“We came to drop off frozen dumplings for you. What are you doing?” her mom asks.
She glances at her watch. “It’s almost one!
” Before Maggie can stop her, Mom goes and opens all her curtains.
As a bright beam of afternoon sun hits Maggie’s face, she quickly looks away.
But it’s too late. Mom sees the wrinkles and crow’s-feet under her eyes. “What’s wrong with your face?”
“Nothing!” she cries. That goddamn Botox—why does it take so long to kick in?
Willa calls out from the living room, “I’m going for a walk!” They hear the click of the front door closing softly.
Mom reaches out a hand and tries to touch her face. “What happened to your skin?”
Maggie tries to turn, but Mom grabs her hand and pulls her closer toward her. Mom gasps. “Maggie, you look like you forty years old!”
“What?” Maggie exclaims, panicking. She lunges toward the bathroom. “No! I’m only supposed to be thirty-three!”
Her parents’ eyes widen. “What you talking about?” they demand.
Maggie panics, locking herself inside. “Nothing! It’s nothing!”
Her parents pound on the door. “Obviously not nothing!” Mom cries.
The pounding pulls her right back to when she was twelve, in that bathroom at McDonald’s.
There’s a long line of people outside, asking her to open up, and she’s sobbing, wishing her mom would come quicker, wondering why she’s taking so long to pick her up, and hating herself for going to Vivian’s on Christmas.
It was supposed to be a happy day. And what did she do?
She dragged herself to the most humiliating place…
all for a Coach bag. The bathroom floor was filthy, but not as gross as Maggie feels about herself right now.
When Maggie walks out of the bathroom, mascara is streaming down her cheeks.
“Tell me whole truth. What did you do?” Mom whispers.
Maggie drops her head into her arms as the words come tumbling out.
“I’m trading my blood for money…”
—
No one speaks a word at first.
Maggie peeks up at her parents. Say something, she begs.
But her parents just sit in shock. Dad’s the first to move.
He takes her arms gently. At first, Maggie thinks it’s to hug her, but then she realizes he’s pulling up her sleeve.
He’s checking her for needle marks, as if she’s some sort of heroin addict.
When he sees the tiny jab marks at her arm, he sobs.
The only other time in her life she’s seen her dad cry was when she finally opened the door at McDonald’s, but this somehow feels worse.
“Why?” Mom asks.
Maggie looks down. So they could finally have everything they deserve? So they would finally be proud of her? But that seems cruel and pathetic to say.
“It’s almost over,” she says instead. “I have over a million dollars in my bank account. You want to see?” She starts pulling out her phone, but her parents aren’t interested. They push her phone away.
“So that’s what all that money was?” Mom asks.
“And all that stuff about your book getting published? It’s all…” Dad’s voice trails off. She can hear the pain etched in his voice. Maggie winces. It’s like getting run over slowly by a car.
“What about going to see your publisher in New York?” Mom asks. “That was a lie, too?”
Maggie nods. Her throat is bone-dry. “I can still make it happen,” she says.
“The option—that’s real! Ingrid really wants to make it into a movie!
” But even as she says the words, she’s not sure if she believes them.
And she knows her parents definitely don’t.
From this point forward, they’ll never trust a single word she says.
“I was going to get there, one way or another, eventually. I just…I thought this way would be faster.”
She grabs her mother’s hand, but Mom twists it free.
“This not the way,” Mom says.
“But Mom.” Maggie’s eyes well as she reminds her, “This way you can get your dental surgery on Wednesday. You were in pain, remember?”
Her mom grabs her purse and turns to leave.
“I will never get another surgery with that disgusting money. I’d rather live with my diseased gums. You understand?”
—
All night, Maggie tries texting her mother.
Please, Mom, you’ve got to get the extraction on Wednesday, she pleads. You’re on a schedule!
I don’t care about schedule.
But this makes no sense! What’s done is done already! The money’s already THERE. Why are you taking this out on your teeth?
I want you to stop.
I can’t stop. I already signed a contract!
Forget contract. Forget the money! Tell her NO.
And if I don’t? You’re just going to leave the rest of your teeth rotting?
Better rotting mouth than rotting heart.
Maggie rolls her eyes. Typical. She was such a fool to tell her mom. To expect her to understand or to look at the situation rationally. Her mom can’t do rational. If she could, she would have never moved to this country with a little girl in the first place.
She waits anxiously for Willa to come home, but her roommate’s taking an unusually long time.
She texts Willa. Did she go to a class? She walks into her room to see if there’s a brochure with a schedule.
She doesn’t find a schedule, but she finds a printout of every audition Willa ever went to, along with a breakdown of how much she spent on headshots, wardrobe, classes, and rent in LA.
It hits Maggie that for all her roommate’s optimistic mantras, she’s just as scared it’s not going to work out.
At the reminder of how hard both of them are fighting, resolve hardens inside her. Maggie has a new idea of how she can get to be the screenwriter of Summer Rain. One that Ingrid’s not going to like. But as she once taught Maggie, it’s not about our egos or feelings.
She picks up the phone and dials Ingrid.