Page 104 of Cuts like a Knife
“I just worked so hard. So damn hard on my book. Publishing is impossible. Without some sort of leg up, no one’s ever going to read it. It took me three years to write and three more years to get a publisher to even look at it, and another year to get one to agree to take a chance on it if I started with a dumb memoir. That’s seven years, Alexis. Seven whole years of my life. And when I finally did get an offer, half of the reason they said yes was my profile. They asked me outright — are you willing to use your resources and notoriety to sell these books? What was I supposed to say? No? And then this Hot Slice opportunity came up, and Danny’s got his restaurant opening and it all fell into place. Really suddenly. We had to say yes. We had to.
“But I sort of hate it. Being here, in the place that I should love, that I do love, but in this, like, Twilight Zone version of it — staying at that resort, all of that. When we come here, we rent a bungalow or we stay with JP. We could never afford to stay at the Emerald Queen in our real lives. The whole thing is so ridiculous, but here we are.” She trails off and takes a big gulp from her water bottle.
I don’t really know what to say, so I just repeat her last few words in an understanding voice.
“Here we are,” I say, raising my own bottle in a toast.
“Cheers, right? The timing is funny. Before the show, I felt like I’d finally finally escaped that world. The whole famous thing. It was in the past. I was in movies so so long ago. And I’ve done so much since then. I have a Masters degree! Who I was still followed me, sure. The child-actor label, I mean. Where are they now? How many times can the media run the same damn story? It’s so boring! And maybe people were catching on to that, because I was getting called for pieces like that less and less. I don’t even have an agent anymore, so maybe you guys — journalists, I mean — didn’t know how to find me. Who know what happened, but it was great. People had mostly stopped recognizing me. I was just another person, so I was able to move through the world in a relatively normal way. It was such a relief. To be normal. To talk to people who were normal. And you seemed normal. Not like the rest of them. I felt that right away, right when I first saw you trying to ask a half-way decent question at that conference. And then you were really nice about that creeper Pete — and I dunno. I let my guard down. I didn’t mean to tell you so much. Show you so much. So maybe it was stupid of me?”
She says it like a question and my gut clenches313.
“You have a secret too, right? Like what if your brother finds out you’re dating his best friend? Maybe it would be a problem and maybe it wouldn’t, but it’s the sort of information you want to control, I’m sure. You want to be able to decide when it comes out, and how.”
“We’re not really together,” I say. “It’s complicated.”
“Isn’t everything?”
We sit side-by-side in the sand, and I start pulling up handfuls of it, closing my first around the grains, watching them slip though my fingers.
“I used to have a different job, you know. At a better publication. Flash? You may have heard of it. They’re here too. Newspaper, website, video network. They do everything now.”
Maylee’s face is puzzled, like she’s wondering where I’m going with this.
I’m wondering where I’m going with this.
“Anyway, while I was there I … f—ed up. I made a mistake. I got fired.”
I wait. Watch for her face for a micro-reaction. For that look of judgement. But it doesn’t come. Maylee shrugs like it’s no big deal.
“It happens,” she says. “I’ve been fired before.”
“No, but like, I did something bad. Or, it looks like I did something bad. It’s … a mess. You think me hooking up with Drew is a secret, but it’s nothing compared to this. Hardly anybody knows. My current boss doesn’t know. Nobody at my current job knows. I wouldn’t be employable if it came out,” I say.
Maylee looks strangely happy at these words.
“So you get it! This is what I mean—”
“No, listen. Because I got this email on Friday — this threatening email. Someone saying they knew what I did — not like, I Know What You Did Last Summer style, but like, blackmail style. They said, I know the truth about you and I’m going to tell. And ever since, I’ve just been waiting. Tense. Waiting for the axe to fall. The clock’s ticking. This a—hole, whoever he is, is going to out me to my current boss and I’m probably going to get fired again. And then … I don’t what I’ll do.”
Maylee just waits, watching my face. Instead of looking back at her, I stare down at the beach, where Drew and Danny are playing, tossing the little football back and forth, running into the waves, deliberately diving. They look like a vintage Abercrombie ad.
I shake my head. “I don’t think I can take getting fired again. It was … I feel like I’m not over it. It was more than two years ago and the thought of people knowing makes me want to vomit. It would be like … everyone seeing the truth about me or something.”
“What truth? Getting fired doesn’t say anything about you. It just happens sometimes. It’s usually the company. Not the worker. At least in my experience. I once got fired because some producer said one of my ears was too irregular. Like one of my ears was noticeably bigger than the other one, according to him, and he thought it looked bad on camera. Distracting. So he fired me. I was eight years old.”
I shake my head. “You don’t understand. I did something. Really bad. You and your ears or whatever — that wasn’t your fault, but my thing was. Or, it was a mistake, but it looks like it was my fault. It looks like I did it on purpose. It looks really bad. So no one will ever see it that way. Once it gets out, I’m done.”
“What did you do?”
I just shake my head. I can’t tell her. I can’t tell anyone. That’s the whole point.
“Well, whatever it is, it’s probably not as bad as you think. Most things aren’t.” Easy for her to say.
“I can’t lose another job. In front of everyone. The people from Flash, the ones who fired me, they’re here this week, right? And they look at me like I’m a piece of s—. Like I’m gum on their shoes. Worthless. Or worse, contagious.”
“They sound like jerks,” she says.
“They are. They definitely are. But that’s what these people are all like. And they’re in and I’m out.”
