vision so lovely it makes you want to write a poem about it. It’s easy to imagine oneself chim-chimereeing from roof to roof, sailing along the top of Manhattan without ever having to mingle with the huddled masses below.
And there, in the middle of it, leaning against a wisteria-laden arbor, stands a nearly nude forest nymph.
“Surprise!” Kelly crows, thrusting her arms in the air like the cheerleader she once was. She wears a bikini, her pink skin looking distinctly undercooked. On the wrought-iron table next to her, a bottle of champagne chills in an ice bucket.
“What are you doing here?” I say, inhaling vanilla as I hug her, as if she were a yummy baked good. “Why aren’t you in Akron?”
“I had a meeting,” she says. She hugs Natie, who holds on to her too long.
“What kind of meeting?” People our age don’t have meetings. And we don’t open bottles of champagne on the roof gardens of million-dollar town houses, either. What the hell is going on?
“I had an interview with an agent,” Kelly says. “And he signed me!”
Ziba pops the cork, which goes off like a gunshot.
“What?”
“Congratulations!” Natie says, taking advantage of the moment to hug Kelly again. The little horn dog.
“H-h-how?” I say. But this is not what I mean. What I mean is,
Why?
Specifically,
Why you and not me?
Kelly explains that the choreographer for
Oklahoma!
was so impressed with her work as Dream Laurey in the dream ballet—not only as a dancer but as an actress—that he recommended her to his agent, who, get this, represents GWEN VERDON. “Can you believe it?” she squeals. “She’s, like, my idol!”
Please. Kelly didn’t even know who Gwen Verdon was until I made her watch
Damn Yankees
.
She continues: “Irving thinks I should take time off from school.”
Irving? Already he’s Irving? I want an Irving. How come I don’t have an Irving?
“He said I’m perfect for commercials and soaps.”
This is too much. “Are you s-sure that’s a good idea?” I sputter.
“But of course,” Ziba says, resting her cocoa brown arm on Kelly’s pink shoulders. “She can stay here with me.”
Great. Kelly gets an Irving and an Edith Wharton building with columns. Plus someone to have sex with on a regular basis. “What about school?” I ask.
Kelly raises an eyebrow, a consequence of hanging around Ziba too much. “I’m a dance major,” she says, dropping a sugar cube in her flute. “It’s not like a real degree.”
“Exactly,” I say. “You don’t have any acting training.”
“Edward!” Ziba says, her cat eyes flashing. “You sound like you don’t want Kelly to succeed.”
I know I’m being petty. If I were a rock ’n’ roller, I’d be Tom Petty. If I were in the navy I’d be chief petty officer. If I were underwear, I’d be a petticoat. “Of course I want her to succeed,” I say. I just don’t want her to succeed before me.
“Actually,” Kelly says, “I told him all about you.”
And just like that, flowers bloom in my soul as I immediately envision the
New York Times
Arts and Leisure piece about how Broadway’s newest sensations dated in high school.
“What did you say?”
Seven
Pinnacle Management sits high above the theater district, but it might as well be a world away. The lobby of the glass tower thrums with office-type people—men in suits carrying briefcases, women in suits wearing sneakers—all of them rushing to get upstairs to do whatever it is office-type people do.
I am not one of you
, I tell myself as I dig out from the elevator,
I am not one of you
. Granted, I’m not meeting with Irving Fish to discuss my bright future on the Great White Way. During Kelly’s interview Irving mentioned that he’d just lost his assistant and, faithful friend that she is, Kelly recommended me. Having just paid a $100 fine for disorderly conduct, I’m in no position to turn it down. Besides, who knows where a talent agency job might lead?
“I know
And there, in the middle of it, leaning against a wisteria-laden arbor, stands a nearly nude forest nymph.
“Surprise!” Kelly crows, thrusting her arms in the air like the cheerleader she once was. She wears a bikini, her pink skin looking distinctly undercooked. On the wrought-iron table next to her, a bottle of champagne chills in an ice bucket.
“What are you doing here?” I say, inhaling vanilla as I hug her, as if she were a yummy baked good. “Why aren’t you in Akron?”
“I had a meeting,” she says. She hugs Natie, who holds on to her too long.
“What kind of meeting?” People our age don’t have meetings. And we don’t open bottles of champagne on the roof gardens of million-dollar town houses, either. What the hell is going on?
“I had an interview with an agent,” Kelly says. “And he signed me!”
Ziba pops the cork, which goes off like a gunshot.
“What?”
“Congratulations!” Natie says, taking advantage of the moment to hug Kelly again. The little horn dog.
“H-h-how?” I say. But this is not what I mean. What I mean is,
Why?
Specifically,
Why you and not me?
Kelly explains that the choreographer for
Oklahoma!
was so impressed with her work as Dream Laurey in the dream ballet—not only as a dancer but as an actress—that he recommended her to his agent, who, get this, represents GWEN VERDON. “Can you believe it?” she squeals. “She’s, like, my idol!”
Please. Kelly didn’t even know who Gwen Verdon was until I made her watch
Damn Yankees
.
She continues: “Irving thinks I should take time off from school.”
Irving? Already he’s Irving? I want an Irving. How come I don’t have an Irving?
“He said I’m perfect for commercials and soaps.”
This is too much. “Are you s-sure that’s a good idea?” I sputter.
“But of course,” Ziba says, resting her cocoa brown arm on Kelly’s pink shoulders. “She can stay here with me.”
Great. Kelly gets an Irving and an Edith Wharton building with columns. Plus someone to have sex with on a regular basis. “What about school?” I ask.
Kelly raises an eyebrow, a consequence of hanging around Ziba too much. “I’m a dance major,” she says, dropping a sugar cube in her flute. “It’s not like a real degree.”
“Exactly,” I say. “You don’t have any acting training.”
“Edward!” Ziba says, her cat eyes flashing. “You sound like you don’t want Kelly to succeed.”
I know I’m being petty. If I were a rock ’n’ roller, I’d be Tom Petty. If I were in the navy I’d be chief petty officer. If I were underwear, I’d be a petticoat. “Of course I want her to succeed,” I say. I just don’t want her to succeed before me.
“Actually,” Kelly says, “I told him all about you.”
And just like that, flowers bloom in my soul as I immediately envision the
New York Times
Arts and Leisure piece about how Broadway’s newest sensations dated in high school.
“What did you say?”
Seven
Pinnacle Management sits high above the theater district, but it might as well be a world away. The lobby of the glass tower thrums with office-type people—men in suits carrying briefcases, women in suits wearing sneakers—all of them rushing to get upstairs to do whatever it is office-type people do.
I am not one of you
, I tell myself as I dig out from the elevator,
I am not one of you
. Granted, I’m not meeting with Irving Fish to discuss my bright future on the Great White Way. During Kelly’s interview Irving mentioned that he’d just lost his assistant and, faithful friend that she is, Kelly recommended me. Having just paid a $100 fine for disorderly conduct, I’m in no position to turn it down. Besides, who knows where a talent agency job might lead?
“I know
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