Chapter One
I try to struggle to my feet. It’s useless. Chris straddles me, laughing at my attempt to get free.
“C’mon, little brother. What’d I teach you?”
“Please...” The knee gouging into my spine makes it hard to breathe. “Stop.”
“Don’t be a sissy. Fight my ass! Be a man!”
A swat to the back of my head knocks my face into the worn, dog-scented carpet. I will myself not to cry. “Don’t. Please.”
“Jesus, Shannon, you’re not even trying. Are you a man or a little bitch? Well are you?” Chris punctuates the insult with a slap to my butt.
“Let me up!”
“Then show me what you’re made of! Or say you’re a bitch. Say it and I’ll get off.”
I keep my mouth shut. Maybe if I go limp...
“Say it! Say you’re a bitch!”
I mumble something.
“I can’t hear you.”
I close my eyes, pressing my forehead into the rug. “I’m a bitch.”
“Damn straight.” Instantly, the pressure comes off my back. Chris stands, regarding me with amusement and contempt. She straightens her shirt and adjusts her ponytail. Beaming down at me, she looks for all the world like the model off some teen girl magazine. Slightly disheveled, but still.
“Dad says it’s time for dinner, Shannon. Oh, c’mon, get up. I didn’t hurt you.”
I pull my knees to my chin. “I’m fine.”
My sister pauses. “Seriously. I was just funning. Get on up, big guy. It’s all good.”
I pretend to tie my shoe. “I’ll be there in a second.”
For a moment I think she’s going to apologize. To realize that maybe I have feelings and they can be hurt.
But I only hear the door close.
And that’s when I allow myself the tears.
*
The living room TV is on. The TV is always on. I have no conscious recollection of it ever being turned off. Not on Christmas day. Not on my birthday. Not at night.
My first memory is of a car commercial.
My family isn’t so low-class as to eat in front of the television. No. We eat in the kitchen, like all good Americans. But we can still see the screen.
Like all good Americans.
Chris is already at the table. She looks up at me, and for just one second, I think she looks sorry. Sorry that she humiliated me. Sorry that she hurt me.
She smiles and belches.
“Knock that shit off.” My father, grinning, barges up to the table, a steaming meatloaf in one pot holdered hand. He pauses to smack Chris on the back of the head.
I sigh, wearily.
Chris isn’t bothered, however. She just flips my father the bird.
Dad’s already doling out the meat. “That your age or your IQ?”
I’ve heard that joke a thousand times.
Silently, I join them at the table. My father slaps a huge, fatty hunk of meatloaf on my plate.
“Dad...” We go through this like every meal.
“It’s good stuff,” he says, not looking at me. “It’ll put hair on your chest.”
It must be true, Dad’s got hair on almost every surface of his body. “It’s just that you said we could start having vegetarian meals occasionally.”
“Mmm!” mocks Chris, her mouth full. “Twigs and gravel.”
Dad flashes his yellow teeth at me from behind his beard. “Next week, sport. I promise.”
He promised over a month ago. And my name is Shannon, not ‘sport.’
I ladle out a heap of green beans, then open my copy of Fahrenheit 451.
“Uh uh.” My father shakes his head. “Put it away, Shannon. Family meal.”
I slam my book onto the table. “Mom working late again?” I ask, maybe just a little spitefully.
His face clouds. “You know she’s doing swing shifts for a while. “
I picture my mother, bent over the conveyor belt at the plastics factory, screwing hinges onto glove compartment pieces, night after night, surrounded by employees living in terror of some guy in Bengal who’d do their job for a fifth of their wages. I think of my father, driving his taxi all over the city all day and still barely making ends meet, because who the hell needs a cab in Des Moines?
I feel like an ass for complaining. It’s not my family’s fault they don’t look at things from a global perspective. Hell, maybe I can be kind of hard to get along with...
A hot buttered roll pegs me in the eye. As I yelp in surprise, I see my sister grinning at me.
“Think fast, Shannon.”
And Dad...Dad just laughs.
I take my fork and stab at the grease ball on my plate. One more year. One more year of high school and I can leave this place.
When Chris graduated last year, I assumed she’d move out. Get her own apartment, in some other neighborhood or some other city. Maybe even go to school. She’s smart enough. And driven enough to succeed, if she actually ever tried to do anything.
Instead, she went from part time to full time at the Dollar General. She still lives at home. Still parties with the same group of high school friends. Still takes time to whale on her younger brother.
I think Dad realizes I’m upset. “So how was school today, Shannon?”
I shrug. I sat where I was told to sit. I put marks on the papers as instructed. I did not act stupid enough or smart enough to cause problems for the establishment. I talked to no one. I dropped my best pen in the toilet.
“The usual.”
“Hey, don’t be modest,” my sister chimes in. “Tell him what you did today, Shannon.”
I freeze. With my eyes, I beg her to shut up. To drop this.
Dad glances back and forth between us. “What? What happened?”
Chris wipes her mouth. “The drama club was having auditions for the spring production. And ol’ Clark Gable here tried out.”
I turn and stare venom at my blabbermouth sister. “How did you know that?”
She shrugs. “Vonnda told me.”
Someone needs to remind my sister that high school lasts four years, not five. She doesn’t need to keep up with the gossip or the old crowd anymore. I know I won’t.
Not that I really have a crowd.
“Like a play?” asks my dad. “That’s great, Shannon. You haven’t been in anything since you were a freshman.”
“Yeah, I brought down the house as ‘Townsperson Number 2.’” I can’t look him in the face. Not that stupid, happy-go-lucky grin.
“So when will you—”
“I don’t know! Just drop it, okay?”
They give me the stink eye, but I don’t care. I don’t want to sit here and explain how I already know that I’m not going to make the cut. That when it comes to school productions, talent has nothing to do with who is cast. It’s all about politics and cliques and...looks. Good looks.
And popularity. The right friends. Connections. Which is why my audition today was stupid.
I’m no longer hungry. I retreat to my room.
No one tries to stop me. They never do.
*
I walk home from school the next day, angry and sad. Mostly sad.
They’ve posted the cast list for the spring production. And I’m on it.
Man on train: Shannon Ferguson
It didn’t matter that I’d practiced for weeks for one of the lead roles. It didn’t matter that I’d had the entire monolog memorized while everyone else just read the script. It didn’t even matter that I’d been working behind the scenes at the various school productions since elementary school.
No, what matters is that I’m short and gangly and unpopular.
It wouldn’t sting so bad if it were fellow students making the casting calls. I wouldn’t expect anything more from them. But Mrs. Hardy and Mr. Darst. I really thought they’d do the right thing. I really thought they’d choose talent over looks.
I need solitude. I need alone time. Mom and Dad are both working. I’ll just go home and lock myself in my room. It’ll be okay, just as long as…
Shit.
They’re here. The three or four identical POS cars that have been parked in front of my house every weekend since Chris was a sophomore. And they’ll contain the same half dozen people who’ve been hanging around here since we were in junior high.
I don’t need this. Not today. Bracing myself, I head through the front door. If luck is with me, they’ll be on the back porch.
Nope, right in the living room. The same group of kids Chris hung out with in high school. The same group of now nineteen and twenty year olds, still in Des Moines. Still working at the same fast food joints and retail stores, still reliving their past drinking glories, and still hanging out on my parents’ couch.
“Shannon!” barks one of the guys. “How’s it hanging?” I wave, half-heartedly. When I graduate next year, I’m only coming back to this house for Thanksgiving and Christmas. If then.
As I turn toward my bedroom, I feel an arm wrap around my neck. I’m soon in a semi-headlock, much to the amusement of our guests.
“C’mon, Chris, knock it off.”
She releases me. I rub my shoulder. The only female member of the wrestling team in the history of my high school and she happens to be my sister.
“Shannon! Hey, c’mon, sit down with us,” she sweetly commands. Her friends bark in
approval, either of me joining them, or Chris saying anything, or of their ability to breathe oxygen.
“Maybe later.”
“C’mon, you never want to hang out anymore.”
I don’t recall ever wanting to hang out, period. “Some other time.”
“Shannon, this is your last year here…”
I start to walk away. Her hand on my arm stops me.
It really stops me. To a casual observer, it may seem like a sisterly touch. But I feel the pressure. The strength. The look in her eyes.
If I don’t obey, she’s going to hurt me.
I sit on the couch.
I sit on the couch like some well trained puppy. I turn down offers of beer, of dope, of girls. They eventually stop trying to talk to me. I can’t wait to leave, both from the living room and from this life.
But will I really get out? Or will every audition I attend be another humiliation like today?
Chris is in the kitchen. I have to leave. If I go to my room, Chris will just drag me out. I’ll hang out on the porch. I can make a break for it if she comes after me.
“Just getting some air,” I yelp, as I head for the back door. No one hears me.
Freedom at last. Except I’m not alone. There’s someone out here. Someone I’ve never seen before.
A girl, maybe fifteen or sixteen. She’s leaning on the porch railing. She has fair, freckled skin, dyed reddish hair, and the narrowest nose I’ve ever seen. A skinny frame and an obvious retainer complete the vision of awkwardness.
She glances at me with little curiosity.
Who the hell is she? How have I not met her before? She’s completely beautiful.
She takes a drag from her cigarette.
Almost completely.
“Hey,” I say, my problems temporarily forgotten.
She exhales smoke in my direction and nods. I join her at the railing.
“I’m Shannon. Chris’s brother.”
“I know.” There’s a pause. “I’m Tanya. Pete’s sister.”
I don’t know who Pete is. I fumble for something to say. “You didn’t have to come out here to smoke.” It’s true. Our house already smells like an ashtray.
She butts her cigarette on the railing. “Too noisy in there. I came out here to be alone.”
“Hey, me too! It’s so nice to get away from the crowd, isn’t it?”
She lifts one shoulder in what might be a shrug.
I lean against the railing next to her. I struggle to think of something cool to say. I try to recall every online lesson I took about stage presence and projection. I try to make myself appear to be larger.
“So didn’t I see you at the spring musical tryouts?” I didn’t, but it’s a way to start a conversation.
“Nope.” She glances over her shoulder.
“Oh, thought I saw you there. I, um, just landed a part.”
“You don’t say.”
“Yeah, not much, but hey, you know what they say. There are no small roles, only small actors.”
She’s leaving. Without thinking, I step in front of her.
“Hey, you want to go for a walk?”
Without a pause she weaves around me, and without a look back, returns to my house.
Perfect effing ending to today.
*
In my room. Alone. Headphones plugged in. I can’t hear the TV. I can’t hear Chris and her friends laughing at their own jokes, at the television, and whatever they find so funny about our lives.
I stare at my laptop screen. I bought this computer with my own cash, nearly a year of tutoring money. My parents don’t know I have this.
Not that they wouldn’t approve, or would try to monitor my internet or something. It’s just that last Christmas, they bought me a secondhand laptop. Probably paid a fortune for it. God, the looks on their faces.
I can’t tell them it was a broken, outdated piece of shit. I can’t let them know they were ripped off. It sits on my desk, pristine and untouched. I let them think it was the best present ever.
My door is locked. Not that that ever stopped Chris before, with my ill-fitting latch and her powerful shoulders. Hopefully she’s too busy with her friends to bother me again. I log onto my email account.
And there it is. They’ve responded.
My hand hovers indecisively over the mouse. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t been through this before. It’s not like this is good news. The logical side of my brain tells me to delete the message unread.
But still...
I open the letter.
Dear applicant...
Shit, shit, shit.
Same as always. The form letter. Polite, generic words, telling me in two paragraphs why I’ve been passed over for the audition. Or drama program. Or scholarship. Vague, sweet sounding terms that all mean the same thing.
You’re just not good looking, Shannon. Not enough. Not really.
Now, it’s not a requirement that you have to be Ryan Reynolds gorgeous to break into theater. But it sure as hell helps.
And there are exceptions to the rule. But for every John Goodman and Seth Rogan, there’s a thousand guys with washboard abs, blue eyes and six inch chins who are clamoring for the role of ‘waiter.’
So where does that leave me? Double checking the lock on my door, I pull out my secret envelope. The one filled with the headshots I had done at the mall last winter. God, if anyone ever found out...
And there, staring me in the face, is the reason I’ll never get a lead role. Not in Hollywood, not in the school musical, not in the Des Moines Players production of Rent.
My face. My brown-eyed, hollow cheeked, snub nosed, straight haired, gap toothed face.
My longish hair didn’t say ‘rebel’, it said ‘guy too clueless to know when he needs a haircut.’ My smile didn’t say ‘Yes, that is a gun in my pocket and I am happy to see you.’ It says ‘Paper or plastic, ma’am?’ And my eyes don’t say ‘You feeling lucky, punk?’ They say ‘Please don’t hit me.’
The whole picture says ‘future employee of the month at the Apple Genius Bar.’
My parents would be so proud.
Seriously. That time I resurrected my mom’s cell phone after she dropped it in the sink, they called my grandparents to brag.
I’m about to slam the laptop shut in frustration, when I decide to log onto desperation.com. That’s not the real URL, but it should be. It’s a website where thousands of out of work actors post leads, rumors, and other vague hints of where the next big audition is going to be. The one big break. The role that’s going to knock them out of obscurity.
I’m quite familiar with the site.
I check anyway. It’s the usual tripe.
They say Chuck Johansen dropped out of the latest Delta Strike movie. Any African-American actors who can play a blind man should get ready to audition.
I hear they’re going to be filming the next Bohemian Buccaneers movie in Charlotte. Any east coast actors who can do a good pirate voice should stay by their phone.
LARGE MOTION PICTURE COMPANY LOOKING FOR ACTRESSES 18-25 GUARANTEED WORK PLEASE E-MAIL...
Sigh...
It’s only when I see a photo of Natalia Jenkins that I pause. And smile.
That perfect, heart-shaped face. The adorable blond bob. Those curvy, um, other assets.
But it’s not just her looks. It’s the whole package (and believe me, the package is wrapped nicely). Her almost meteoric rise to stardom in the past couple of years. The adorable way she’d tripped on the stairs going to claim her Oscar. The selfless way she worked, campaigning for the environment, women’s rights, universal healthcare.
I thought about her a lot.
Yeah, me and half the guys in America. But still. I could picture me getting cast as a hotel clerk or something in one of her movies. During a lull in filming, we start talking. She’s impressed by my intelligence and my love for Skylar Robbins novels (which I started reading after she mentioned them on her blog). Afterwards, she invites me out for coffee.
I laugh out loud. Kind of a roadblock to that fantasy, Shannon. You’ll never be in the same room with Natalia Jenkins. And it’s not like she’s going to invite you to come out to Los Angeles to meet her.
I glance at the link under her picture.
COME OUT TO LOS ANGELES AND MEET ME!
Uh...
Chapter Two
The following Monday, I sit in front of my webcam, paralyzed with indecision. I practiced this all weekend. It should be simple. It should be fun. The opportunity to actually send a message to Natalia Jenkins, and I can’t think of a thing to say.
I log onto the website again. Becoming.com . It’s a reality show, a series. Every episode, some lucky fan gets to shadow their idol for a couple of months. To live with them. Work with them. Hang out with them. Perform with them.
I watch a clip of a young guitarist meeting his punk rock hero. Within a month, the kid is decked out in skeleton makeup and playing backup at a rowdy concert. In another show, a high school second stringer meets his idol, the quarterback for the Browns. At the end of the episode, the kid throws a touchdown pass in a practice game (I think. It was the Browns, after all, maybe they really signed him on). I see aspiring actors, musicians, and athletes living the dream with the people they admire.
Natalia will be filming an episode in a couple of months. To be considered, all you have to do is submit a two-minute video essay.
And I don’t know what to say.
I mean, I can think of plenty to say, but nothing impressive. Nothing to make me stand out among the thousands of fans who will surely apply for this. Really, what makes me so special? A seventeen-year-old kid from Iowa, sitting here in my father’s dress shirt, trying to think of something to tell this gorgeous movie star that doesn’t sound like ‘I want to see you naked?’
Miss Jenkins, I’ve always admired your work with...
Miss Jenkins, I’m your biggest fan...
Natalia, I think you and I...
Hell with it. I shouldn’t bother. Shouldn’t set myself up for a really painful form letter.
“Hey, numbnuts!”
Chris has barged in without knocking. I quickly turn the laptop screen away.
“Dad wants you...hey, what were you looking at?”
“Nothing!” I attempt to shut down the browser, but it locks up, of course. Chris hovers over my shoulder.
“What is this, some kind of porno site? Hey, let me see!”
I can’t let her know what I’m doing. I’d hear about this for the rest of my life. She’d tell our parents.
Acting on instinct, I throw an elbow backward and catch her in the gut. I hear her gasp in pain.
A second later, I’m the one gasping when she slaps me in the ear.
“I was just looking, jerkwad!” she storms out of the room.
I will not cry...
I will not...
Oh, to hell with it.
I turn on the camera. I shove my face toward the grainy screen. I do not smile.
“My name is Shannon. I do not fit in anywhere. Please help me get away.”
*
The invitation comes a week before school lets out. And I’m not the first one to see it. My mom is.
Mom always looks hungover. She’s perpetually bleary eyed, yawning, and headachy. It’s funny how a ten-hour shift has the same end results as a hard night of drinking.
I’m at the kitchen table, reading. I promised Dad I wouldn’t spend so much time in my room. Plus Chris is blasting her stereo, so that side of the house is kind of a war zone anyway.
Mom kisses me on the top of my head. I try not to stiffen.
We go through the usual dance of how-was-your-day-fine-how-was-yours-fine. Just when I think we’re through, she throws in an extra line.
“Picked up a little something for you today.”
I cringe inside. She doesn’t need to waste money on stuff for me. And I do mean waste. Just because I like reading, doesn’t mean I want my own copy of Devotionals for Teens or the abridged version of Moby Dick.
But then she drops a large envelope in front of me.
“I had to sign for this at the post office. What is it?”
A registered letter? I’m too young for jury duty or the draft. It’s a huge envelope with padding and everything. No name on the return address, just a PO Box in Los Angeles.
Wait a minute...
Mom is hovering over my shoulder. “Well?” she asks excitedly.
“Nothing. Just, um, some, uh, comic books I ordered. Excuse me.”
I rush for my room.
*
The first thing I remove is an autographed glossy of Natalia.
Dear Shannon,
I’m looking forward to meeting you this summer! We’re going to have a blast!
XXX
Natalia
I collapse on the floor.
I did it. I won. I came out on top.
For the first time in seventeen years, Shannon is number one. How many people entered this contest? Five-thousand? Ten-thousand? And they chose me.
She chose me.
I bite my knuckle to keep from screaming.
I picture the twits who didn’t cast me in the spring production. I picture Chris, mocking my attempts to get into drama camp.
I picture Natalia, meeting me at her door with one of her famous lemongrass milkshakes.
Can this really be happening?
I reverently place the photo in a folder in my desk, then dive into the stack of paperwork.
Dear Shannon, (not ‘dear applicant’)
Congratulations! You have been selected to appear on the newest season of Becoming. Natalia Jenkins was very impressed with your video letter. She feels you are a remarkable young person and is looking forward to working with you.
Please complete and sign the attached forms and return them to us by the end of May. Upon receipt of the contract, we will send you a plane ticket to Los Angeles (departing the week of June 2nd). For the next five weeks you’ll be staying at our luxury hotel, living like the star you’ve dreamt of becoming!
They know me so well.
All your food and transportation will be provided. But the best part is, you’ll be hanging out with Oscar-winning actress Natalia Jenkins, star of such hits as My Brother’s Keeper and Sahara Safari! You’ll experience some of the trendiest shopping, dining, and nightlife the Golden State has to offer. But that’s not all! After some exciting one on one coaching from Natalia, you’ll go on stage for an actual speaking role in her upcoming movie Darkness in the Daytime!
We look forward to seeing you in California this summer. Again, congratulations!
It’s happening. It’s really finally actually happening. Do I burst out of my room and rub this in Chris’s stupid face, or do I wait for dinner? Wait for them to ask me how my day was?
I’m too giddy to think. I can barely read the enclosed contract. It’s dense legalese, but they’ve attached a brief summary page on top:
1) I’m not getting paid for this.
2) They own my ass for five weeks, and can film anything I say or do for the show.
3) I’m on social media blackout. As soon as I arrive, anything I post online is subject to the approval of the gods.
4) I’m not to make a drunken ass of myself.
5) If I’m under the age of 18, I’ll need to have a parent or guardian accompany me...
Wait, what was that last one?
I reread it, then check the actual clause in the contract.
Any contestant under eighteen has to have an adult with them for the entire five weeks of filming. The show will pay for the hotel and plane ticket. No exceptions.
I won’t turn eighteen until October.
I think of my parents. Five weeks. Over a month with one of them in LA.
It’s unthinkable. It’s impossible.
They can’t miss five days of work. Hell, five hours is a stretch.
I stare at the papers in my hand. My dreams in physical form. The one thing I’ve ever wanted. My ticket out of here.
And I can’t go.
No point in hiding the tears this time.
*
Four hours later, things seem just as black. Every scenario I imagine is hopeless. All my adult relatives have jobs. No one could miss this much work.
I can’t ask the producers to bend the rules for me. They’d cancel the contract the second I brought it up.
I can’t lie about my age. Mom and Dad are going to insist on seeing all the paperwork. They won’t let me fake being eighteen.
Could I lie about where I’m going? Say I got into a drama camp or something? Unlikely. They’ll want to know the details. Want to see the brochures. Want to research the facility, talk to someone in charge.
I stare morosely at Natalia’s photo.
We were so close.
I need air. Sliding the envelope full of my broken dreams under the bed, I head out to the darkness of the back porch.
My Dad and I scare the hell out of each other.
“What are you...” we both bark, when we realize we’re not facing down a burglar.
My question really needs no answer. Dad’s guilty expression and the smell of smoke in the air gives him away. He told me he was going to try to quit...
He looks at me expectantly. I shrug. “Couldn’t sleep.”
We both stare at each other. It shouldn’t be this awkward between a father and son.
“Hey, Dad?
“Yeah?”
“Do you think, this summer, you and I could take a trip sometime?”
He grins so wide I feel terrible about my true motives. “You bet! We haven’t been camping in years.”
Here goes nothing. “Well...I was thinking of something maybe longer. Like a road trip.”
He looks thoughtful. “Yeah, I got some time coming up. What did you have in mind? Chicago for a couple of days?”
“Um...I was thinking of something…more. How much time could you take off?”
He shifts uncomfortably. “Shannon, you know fares are way down. I go away for more than a few days, they might realize they can make do without me.”
I try to laugh it off. “Sure. I understand. Camping would be great.”
“Fighting mother nature on her own uncompromising terms! Man versus the wild!”
I manage a thin smile. The awkwardness descends again. Dad moves, as if to leave, then stops.
“Hey, Shannon, is everything okay?”
“Huh? Yeah. Fine.”
Dad starts to walk away again, but pauses. “Talk to me, Son. You’ve been weird lately.”
And I want to. I want to tell him everything. About the contest, and how I’m going to miss getting a chance to meet my hero and act in one of her movies because I’m four stinking months too young. But I can’t tell him. He’d just feel bad about not being able to help.
Shannon, I know I said I’d try to pay for that drama camp, but then the furnace went out and…I’m sorry.
You know I wanted to be there, son. I really did. But with half the guys down with the flu, they needed me at work. I’m sorry.
Look, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, Shannon. I was laughing with you. Don’t be mad, sport. I’m sorry.
“Just worried about the future. Kinda feel like I’m not going anywhere. Nothing’s ever going to happen. Does that make sense?”
My father puts his arm on my shoulder. I’m kind of surprised, it’s the first time he’s really touched me since I can remember.
“I know just what you mean. Especially at your age. Big ol’ world out there, and maybe you feel like you don’t have the cash or the time or the talent to see it. But you have to remember, those opportunities aren’t going to be handed to you.”
Nope, they come by registered mail.
Dad continues. “Shannon, this may sound like old person talk, but now’s the time in your life when you got to get out there and make things happen, okay? Don’t sit around and wait for it to come to you, because it won’t.” He swallows, and then says, almost inaudibly, “Believe me.”
I nod and quickly return to my room.
He’s right. This is the chance of a lifetime. Am I going to let some stupid piddly legal clause rob me of my chance to drink mimosas with Natalia Freakin’ Jenkins? Nope.
But I have to think this through. When am I supposed to go to California? Early June. And I’ll turn eighteen in October, so I’m just a few months over the limit. So...why not exaggerate the truth? Tell them my birthday is in May or something? It can’t be that hard to get a fake ID...by the time the show goes on the air, I’ll already be legal age. It could work. It’s better than not trying.
There’s only one flaw in the plan. I cannot tell my family what I’m going to do. And I can’t lie to them. Mom and Dad, they’ll want to know every detail of the show. They’ll insist that one of them at least fly out with me. They’ll want to talk to the producers. Embarrass me in front of Natalia.
Blow my cover.
I’m going to have to do this the way I do most everything in my life.
Alone.
Chapter Three
It’s easy to say how you’re going to do something. It’s much harder when the time comes.
Three months ago, when I sent in my signed contract swearing that I was eighteen, I felt like I could do anything. Just a little fib and a faded copy of a copy of a copy for the scanned copy of my driver’s license, and I was six months older.
Now, standing in my carport at two on a Tuesday morning, shivering in the pre-dawn cool, a backpack on my shoulder, I’m having second and third thoughts.
This is stupid. This is crazy. I’ll never make it to LA. They’ll want to see a real ID. They’ll want to talk to my parents.
I should go back inside. I should talk to Dad. I should give this up.
But that photo of Natalia haunts my mind. I’m looking forward to meeting you.
I cannot give that up. Even if they send me away, I have to at least try.
I mentally go over my checklist.
Note to parents: check. I left it in the kitchen. They both have the day off tomorrow and after the double shifts they’ve been working, they won’t be in a hurry to get up. I repeat the message in my mind:
Dear Mom and Dad,
By the time you read this, I will have left the state. Please don’t worry. I will return by mid July. I have a tremendous opportunity to work in the film industry. I’ve been cast in a small role in a movie. I unfortunately had to lie about my age to be permitted to work (there are very strict laws regarding minors working in movies, and I had to tell them I was eighteen to get the part).
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I had a feeling you wouldn’t have allowed me to go had you known the truth. Please know that I am safe and will be coming home as soon as filming wraps up. This is a huge break for me, something that may result in much greater things. This is a legitimate film, though a small one, which was why I was able to get my foot in the door. Please forgive me for doing this. You’ve always told me I was smart and talented. And you told me that I need to make my own opportunities. That’s exactly what I’m doing.
I’m shutting down my social media and my phone. You will not hear from me for five or six weeks. I know you’ll worry, but you’ll have to trust me. I’ll be fine.
Your son,
Shannon
It’s a nasty thing to do, and I know it. Mom and Dad will spend the next month tearing at their hair, wondering where I am, waiting by the phone.
And that’s exactly why I’m going off the grid. The first phone call from them, the first email, I’ll break down. I’d talk to them. Spill my guts. Let them convince me to come back.
I have to do this on my own.
Delete social media: check
I did that earlier, before wiping my real laptop and hiding it.
Are you sure you want to delete your social media account? YES/CANCEL
Really sure? YES/CANCEL
Really, REALLY sure? YES/CANCEL
Please type I REALLY WANT TO DELETE MY SOCIAL MEDIA in this box:
Your social media is about to be permanently deleted. Would you like to make one last post where you huffily complain about the distractions and pitfalls of online activities and make yourself the center of attention, as if you’re abdicating the throne of England? YES/CANCEL
That last one wasn’t real.
I admit, it didn’t come easy, but who cares? Once my show airs, I can resurrect it all. From now on, I’ll follow Natalia Jenkins’s directions, only posting what she wants me to post, only blogging what the show wants me to blog. I can do this.
Turn off phone: check
It’s powered down. I consider leaving it at home, but I might need it for emergencies. It stays off otherwise. I know they can track your location through your phone in extreme cases, such as a kid running away. Nope. I may drop my family a postcard, but I won’t be talking on the phone.
This summer, Shannon Ferguson is the property of Becoming. I’m going to do this.
The show sent me an e-ticket for my flight. The problem at hand is actually getting to the airport. Every cabbie in the city knows my father. I have no choice but to hike the five miles to the nearest bus stop.
It’s now or never. I can delay this no further.
Look...they’ve gone and put trash in the recycle bin again.
How many times do I have to ask them? Is it really so hard? I busy myself moving fast food wrappers and chicken bones into the correct receptacle.
And then I realize I’m not alone.
“Shannon?”
I freeze. It’s Chris. She’s snuck up on me from behind the house. It’s easy to smell where she’s been, the odor of beer hits me from two feet away. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen her sneaking in late...well, early.
“Hey.”
She laughs at me, as usual. “What the hell are you doing out here?”
I gesture to the garbage cans. “Just, um, taking out some trash.”
“In the middle of the night? Weirdo.” She shakes her head and moves to the door.
But then she stops and looks at me again. “Uh, why the backpack?”
Jesus, Chris, for the first time ever you notice something about me? “Just putting some stuff in the shed.”
She nods, but doesn’t go anywhere. She just stares.
“What stuff? Shannon, what are you up to?”
“Leave me alone,” I growl.
More silence. I worry our conversation will wake up a neighbor, or worse, my parents. My sister, unfortunately, wants to talk.
“You’re heading somewhere. Where are you going?”
She’s going to blow this. My loudmouth drunken sister is going to ruin everything for me, even before I begin. She’s going to wake up my parents. She’s going to grab me by the collar and drag me into the house. I think it’s this idea that spurs me to action.
I stop toward her. For the first time in years she backs away.
“Chris, listen. This is none of your business. Go inside. I’ve covered for you enough times, now you do it for me.”
I think I see her look at the door. But she doesn’t move. “Just tell me where you’re going.”
“If I do, will you promise to leave me alone?”
“No.”
I glance at my watch. I don’t have time for this. “Look. I have...an opportunity. A chance to be in a movie. It’s the real thing. But I can’t tell Mom and Dad about it, because they won’t let me go. I have to leave, like now. So for once in your life, will you mind your own business? For once in my life will you leave me the hell alone?”
Her bleary eyes widen. “Movie? What are you talking about? Shannon, I don’t think—”
“Forget it. I’m leaving. Do me a favor and don’t snitch on me until morning.” I turn and head down the street. I’m determined not to look back, but of course I do.
Chris stands in the carport, staring after me, watching me go.
If all goes according to plan, that’s the last she’ll see of me for a few weeks.
*
You’d think the contest people could have sent me first class. I know, I know, I should be thankful for what I have. This is my first time in an airplane, and I’m flying for free.
But I’m supposed to be living Natalia Jenkins’s lifestyle, and well...she never flies coach. And I’m sure she never ends up stuck in the middle between a hyperactive eight-year-old and an old man with bladder issues who still insisted on the window seat.
I stand in the terminal and shake myself like a dog. Concentrate, Shannon. You’re about to meet Natalia Freakin’ Jenkins.
Well, probably not right now. There’s no way she’d come to the airport, not without her entourage of bodyguards and handlers. My instructions say someone from the show will meet me at baggage claim.
I have no baggage to claim, everything I took with me fit in my carry on. I duck into the bathroom to check and see if I’ve magically grown more handsome, then take the escalator down to the claim area.
There is a line of drivers near the exit. They each carry signs indicating their contact’s last name. I eagerly scan for a Ferguson.
There! At the end of the line a Black woman holds up a sign with my name on it. Unlike the rest of the disheveled, middle-aged drivers, she’s young and well-dressed. Despite probably only being in her early twenties, she wears a navy business suit. Her hair hangs down her back in long braids. She’s quite pretty, but kind of severe as well. She reminds me of a teacher, the interesting kind, but one who you don’t dare cross.
This is it. I find myself wishing that Mom could have come. She would have been so impressed by all this. She would have insisted on taking a picture of the driver. Of the sign. Of all of us together. Embarrassed the hell out of me.
Too bad she won’t get that chance.
I walk up to the woman and smile. She takes one look at me...and looks away.
I guess she thinks I’m coming on to her or something. I clear my throat.
“Hi. I’m Shannon Ferguson.”
She looks back at me. For a moment, she just stares. And then her eyes go wide. Really wide. She whips out her phone and checks something. Then she looks back at me. She does not look happy.
I had been expecting a warm greeting, a congratulations, maybe a question about my flight. But this...she looks terrified. Something is very wrong.
“You’re not Shannon Ferguson!”
I try to smile, but her panic is contagious. Does this have something to do with me exaggerating my age? No, something is really upsetting her.
“Yes. I’m Shannon. I got a letter saying I’d been selected to appear on Becoming.”
For a second, she looks so angry that I’m seriously afraid she’s going to hit me.
“You’re not Shannon! You can’t be!”
I’m getting a little annoyed. “Why not?”
“Because Shannon Ferguson is a girl!”
Chapter Four
This...this is some kind of joke, right? Some kind of hazing? They must be secretly filming me now. In a second the cameraman will jump out from behind a pillar and we’ll all have a good laugh.
But this woman...she’s not smiling. Not even a little bit. She’s looking at me with cold contempt. I’m getting off to a bad start, I feel.
“Um...a girl?” I say. It was supposed to come out all jokingly, but there is fear in my voice.
For a second, I think she’s going to lunge at me. She doesn’t make a fist or anything, but her dark eyes almost seem to glow red. I’m thankful we’re in a public place.
“Follow me,” she hisses after a minute.
“What did you mean by—”
“Don’t speak.”
She storms out into the parking lot, not checking to see if I’m following. I stand there, dumbfounded.
Something has gone horribly, horribly wrong. Did I check the wrong box on my application or something? Was this a behind-the-scenes screw up?
Hopefully, Natalia and I can sort this out soon. Clutching my backpack, I follow my contact out into the parking garage.
I’m surprised to see her standing in front of a limousine. It’s a long, white, illegally-parked vehicle, with the logo for Becoming on the door. She leans into the driver’s window. As I approach, she yanks open the passenger door and climbs inside.
Unsure of what to do, I follow her. She doesn’t move over to let me in. Instead, that intense, cold stare.
“I should just leave you here,” she says, and I can tell she’s really considering it.
Enough is enough. I throw myself into the car, forcing her to scoot over. The partition between our area and the driver is up. Good.
It’s time this woman explained some things.
“Look...what’s your name?”
“Mila.” No last name, no explanation of who she is or why she expected me to be a woman.
“Mila, I don’t know where things got confused, but I was contacted by the show months ago. I’m Shannon. If someone told you I was a girl, it’s just some kind of mix up.”
She doesn’t answer. She just pulls out her phone and cues up a video. Instead of handing it to me, she shoves it in my face.
I recognize the clip. It’s my video essay, the film that won me this contest. I never noticed how close I was to the camera, you can see nothing but my face.
Why is she showing me this? I continue to watch my speech, waiting for some kind of explanation.
My sister has always been the pretty one. The one my parents really like...
I don’t fit in. Everyone at school...they think I’m a geek.
I never get a good part in the school productions. I’m not good looking.
I wish I was one of the ‘beautiful people’...
And suddenly, things click into place. The poor quality of the video. The grainy sound. My longish hair. My androgynous name. Some of the comments I made on the tape.
Whoever judged this thinks I’m a girl.
Natalia Jenkins thinks I’m a girl.
I look at Mila with a sick smile.
“It was a mistake.”
She retrieves her phone. “Yeah. That makes me feel so much better.”
The enormity of my situation slowly seeps in. Everyone on this show is expecting a girl. When they realize the truth, it’s going to take more than just changing a form to correct things.
What if they don’t want to film me anymore?
Why do things never work out for me?
“What do we do?” I burst out.
Mila just shakes her head. “You go back to Iowa. I’ll try to undo the damage you’ve caused.”
I’m suddenly angry. This is supposed to be my moment! My big break! The thing I’ve been waiting for all my life. I’m not going to let it pass by just because I don’t have a prominent jaw and my name’s not Butch.
“What is your problem?” I snap. “I’m the one who’s getting screwed out of this, not you!”
If I expect her to apologize, I’m sadly mistaken. But she doesn’t yell, either. She just smiles. It’s a very disturbing, very hateful smile.
“Shannon, honey, I’m a junior producer with Becoming. I’ve worked for that since I got out of college two years ago. Two years of fetching coffee and running errands. Two years of ass kissing and ‘great idea, boss!’ Two years of hell, and I’m finally allowed to be in charge of one stupid episode of one stupid show. And let me tell you, some people work ten years to get an opportunity like that.”
I totally understand where she’s coming from. Opportunity. The same reason I just ran away from home.
Mila pauses, and suddenly looks very tired. “And I completely screw it up. They wanted to go with some hot surfer chick from Hawaii. But no, I had to do my own thing. I wanted the ugly girl. I had all these big plans to make her into a swan. I thought it would be something original. Something people would like. Something fun. My big chance to shine.”
She turns to me and half smiles. “Guess I’ll be fetching coffee again next week.”
I pounce on that smile. It’s the first sign of civility she’s shown me, and I need to get her on my side if we’re going to work through this.
“Maybe if you just explain to everyone that it was a simple misunderstanding...”
“HA!” The scowl is back. “That’s a good one. Hey, Ms. Jenkins, remember that nerdy girl that you were supposed to make into a star? Remember how you told me it was a bad idea, but I swore the viewers would eat it up? Well...funny thing, she has a dick! That won’t mess things up, will it?”
I’m getting tired of her acting like my gender is somehow a bad thing. Or my fault.
“Isn’t it illegal to hire someone based on their sex?” I ask. “If your boss makes a big deal about this, you could threaten to...to...” My words whither up. The expression on Mila’s face tells me how well she thinks threats against her boss would go over.
“Didn’t you think it was strange that we chose a guy to shadow Natalia?”
I didn’t think it was strange at all. Natalia’s always been such a big proponent of gender equality. “You’ve done it before. That show with the girl who worked with that player from the Spurs.”
“Well, this was supposed to be different. I was going to turn you into a clone of Natalia. Same hair, same clothes, same everything.”
That’s not really what I had in mind when I imagined spending a month with my hero.
Mila shakes her head. “This was going to be my big break. If this episode went well, they’d put me in charge of other things. I could be producing my own show in a season or two. Now...I’m screwed. My career is over, thanks to you.”
And that does it. This was not my fault. And Mila isn’t the only one who’s missing an opportunity here.
“Well, what about me?”
Her brown eyes become huge. Again, I worry she’s going to clock me. Instead, she leaves, slamming the door in my face. A moment later, I hear her get into the front of the car with the driver. The engine revs. We start moving.
I’m in a limousine. In Los Angeles. I’m about to become the star of a TV show.
Except that’s not going to happen now. Because everyone thinks I’m a woman. I’m stuck a thousand miles away from home, and I just destroyed the life of the only person who might be able to help me.
Way to go, Shannon.
*
We drive for an hour. We stop a couple of times, but no one tells me to get out, and I don’t risk it. I’m afraid they’ll abandon me somewhere.
What am I going to do? Mila’s right, there’s no way the show will go on. I’ll have to go back home to Des Moines. If I’m lucky, the show will pay for my return ticket.
And then what? By now, my parents will realize I’m gone (if Chris hasn’t already ratted me out). They’ll want to know where I’ve been. What if they find out the truth? What if they realize the reason I got kicked off the show?
What if Chris finds out I was mistaken for her sister? I’d hear about that for the rest of my life. She’ll never drop it. Eighty years from now, I’ll be lying on my deathbed and she’ll remind me.
Maybe I shouldn’t go home. I could start a new life here in L.A.
The car has stopped. Someone knocks at my window. It’s Mila. She motions me to get out. Having no other choice, I obey.
I’m surprised to see we’re parked in an alley behind a hotel. Mila drags me toward a rear entrance that is propped open with a rock.
She gestures me to follow her. Wordlessly, we enter the building and take an elevator to the top floor. My mind is racing. Maybe things aren’t as bleak as they seem. Maybe she’s worked things out with her supervisor. I want to ask, but I’m afraid to broach the subject.
She stops before one of the rooms and opens it with a keycard. I have to say, my breath is kind of taken away. This place is huge! I mean, like almost as big as my house, huge. A bed bigger than my room. Fancy sheets. Flowers on the dresser. In fact, there’s a whole gift basket. I look at the card.
Dear Shannon,
I’m so looking forward to some seriously fun times with you! Stay sweet, girlfriend, I’ll meet you soon.
Natalia.
That kind of takes the wind out of my sails. But when I look at Mila, she’s grinning.
“I think I found a solution to our problems.”
Suddenly, things don’t seem so glum. Maybe she called Natalia and she understood. Or she got me transferred to another episode or something. I look at her hopefully.
She goes to a closet. She pulls something out.
“Put this on, Shannon.”
It’s a dress.