Page 11 of In What World

“We don’t really know anything, though.”

One of the first things that attracted me to Alice as an adult was the fact that the things that set her off didn’t bother me in the same way, and vice versa. I recognized in us an ability to talk each other down, to stand at the base of whatever hill the other person would die on and help make sure they got back to lower, stable ground instead.

Whenever she gets on Jeannie Gratto’s case—one of the Spanish teachers at our school who has an uncanny knack for using up all the copier ink right before Alice needs it—I rub Alice’s back and agree that Jeannie’s annoying without feeling like I need to start a fistfight with Jeannie in the hallway in Alice’s honor.

When I step onto my soapbox about how our phones are robbing everyone of their ability to appreciate long-form art, Alice says, “You’re totally right. It’s good you’re bringing this up.” She means it, but it doesn’t make her want to throw her own phone into a river and become available only by written mail like it does me.

In this specific scenario, Alice’s unruffled feathers make me want to kidnap Dallas myself to prove a point. I know it’s not my best color, and I care for Alice enough to push it down, keeping my voice measured as I say, “I’d like to go to his house just in case. And I was wondering if you could watch the kids for me while I do. He lives five minutes away. It won’t be long.”

“I don’t know…”

“I really need you right now,” I say. “You know how important it is to me to be thorough. This will help me feel like I’ve done all I can.” She loves to therapize our relationship, asking me to point out ways she can be better, no matter how uncomfortable.

Here I am, finger extended, pointing away.

“And I am trying to let you know you’re making this moment bigger than it should be just yet,” she replies, pointing right back. “If I watch the kids, that will alarm them. They shouldn’t be brought into this so soon.”

“I’ve known Dallas Winthrop for twenty years, and he’s never once been late for a regular rehearsal, not to mention a dress rehearsal where he’s also playing a part in the show. If you can’t understand why this is a big deal, I need you to try harder until you do.”

She backs up. “I don’t like the way you’re speaking to me.”

That’s it. My hackles have stayed down long enough. This is not the kind of situation where I want her to talk me down. I need her to climb up the hill and fight alongside me.

“Alice, I am so serious when I say I don’t have time for this right now,” I tell her. “I’ll find someone else to watch the kids. Enjoy feasting on your own pride for dinner. I hope it tastes amazing.” There’s so much panic brewing inside me, my mouth is working faster than my brain, letting me spew out ugly things I don’t really mean.

Before my apology can even form, Alice cuts in with a curt “This isn’t working between us.”

It should be a shock, or a blow, but instead, it’s a relief. I’ve spent way too long without a failure arriving at my doorstep, andfinally, I don’t have to anticipate what bad thing is coming next, because here it is, wrapped in a bow, arriving right in the middle of another crisis.

Of course Alice wants to end this. Of course this relationship is yet another role in which I’ve been miscast. The only surprise is the timing, but even that should’ve been expected. Bad news never has good timing.

“Got it,” I tell her. “Now don’t mind me, but I have to go. Because my fucking friend is missing.”

With that, I leave Alice’s classroom—and evidently also our relationship—behind.

4

Priscilla

The director hasme in a chicken suit, practicing mybawking.

I started doing these commercials long before the Golden Globe nomination, and since I lost that award and all the elusivepossibilitythat came with it, I can only hope to be doing these commercials for a long time after. A check is a check, and being the face of a car insurance company is something even Oscar winners do, like J. K. Simmons. He’s above my level in every other way, but we’ll always have car insurance, won’t we?

Still, it’s hard not to feel a little like, well, like I’ve been tarred and feathered, the way everyone on the commercial’s creative team has their iPhone pointed at me as they laugh.

“This is incredible,” Matt, the commercial’s director, says.

Alone in my trailer, zipping myself into the body portion of the chicken costume, no one had a bigger laugh than I did. That’s the beat I need to play, no matter how everyone else reacts. I’ve survived in show business this long by teachingmyself to smile instead of wince when someone presses on my bruises.

“I’m doing something really special in the feather space,” I say, twisting to show off the costume from every angle.

The only one not amused is Erik. “I don’t get it,” he deadpans, one eyebrow arched and arms crossed, my phone hanging halfway out of his hand.

“I’m the chicken crossing the road,” I tell him. “You know, like the saying.”

“Right. And why is that funny?”

The director explains the premise of the commercial. It’s very fun to see him squirm under Erik’s floodlight of judgment, attempting to appeal to Erik’s Gen Z sensibilities by searching for the gravitas behind the gag, when the truth is, they thought it would be funny to put me, an actress from a very earnest doctor show, into a chicken costume. That’s the whole joke. And because everyone knew I’d go along with it—I always go along with it, no matter how ridiculous—it’s what has happened.