Boy Proof (18 page)

On my way to see a double feature at the two-dollar theater, I notice a group of people. They’re marching in a circle on the sidewalk just next to the school. I can’t get past them; they’ve covered the whole sidewalk.

“What’s going on?” I ask someone with a sign.

“School janitors’ strike.”

“Why?”

“We want a living wage.”

“Why aren’t you in front of the school?” I say.

“Because the district won’t let us speak there. So we’re speaking here so we don’t get arrested.”

All of a sudden, I don’t think going to the movies is very important. I get my camera out of my bag and start to take pictures. I start to chant along.

Why shouldn’t the school janitors get what they deserve? I sign the student petition that a hippie kid is passing around.

All these people on the sidewalk, jammed together for a real cause. Something real.

Max and Nelly are deep in conversation. Ms. Dicostanzo floats into the room. Her lipstick today is a dramatic deep-black orchid. She’s just had her eyebrows done. She kicks some of the papers from the wastepaper basket that have spilled over onto the floor.

“Ugh. God, this school is just a mess. And it’s beginning to smell. Has anybody else noticed that?”

“That’s ’cause the janitors are on strike, Ms. Dicostanzo,” I say.

Max Carter looks up at me.

I push an envelope of photographs that I took at the picket line Friday after school.

“That’s mine and Max’s story,” Nelly says.

“I didn’t write a story. I took some pictures.”

Ms. Dicostanzo flips through the proof sheet and the three photos I blew up to eight by ten. She nods and clucks with approval.

“This one,” she holds up one of my photos. “This one goes on the cover.”

She passes them over to Nelly, who doesn’t pick them up.

Nelly protests. “Max is doing the cover.”

Max picks up the picture that Ms. Dicostanzo likes and examines it.

“Not this time,” Max says. “This should be our cover.”

“No,” Nelly says.

“Let’s vote,” Max says. “Hands up for Egg’s pic being the cover.”

To my surprise, every hand in the room goes up except for Nelly’s.

“Fine,” Nelly says. “Let’s move on to other business.”

I’m walking slowly down the street. I have some time to kill before I go to the Egyptian for the Sixties Science Fiction Festival.

“Hey.” Max pulls on my shoulder.

I turn and face him. There is a silence between us.

“That’s a great photograph,” he says. “I didn’t know that you were at the picket line.”

“I’m full of surprises,” I say. “I’m living in the real world now.”

“I can see that,” Max says.

I look straight into Max Carter’s eyes.

“Friends?” I say.

“Friends,” he says.

It’s the best word there is, really.
Friends.

“I gotta go. I’m late to meet my dad at the editing room. See you tomorrow, okay?”

“Of course,” I say, and then watch Max Carter’s retreating figure.

I think I will float to the Egyptian today. I am too happy to just walk.

I see it while crossing the street. It is taped perilously to the Walk/Don’t Walk sign.

Protest Against GMOs
(Genetically Modified Organisms)
Demonstration — March — Costumes
Pershing Square, Downtown
Saturday, May 2nd, 12 Noon
Come Dressed as Frankenfood!!

I tear down the sign and shove it into my bag.

I am hungry, I’m sick of takeout, and I know that the chances of there being anything good in the fridge at home are slim. So I head into the Good Stuff natural supermarket and I spend twenty bucks on some soba noodles and vegetables.

In the kitchen there’s a wok that my mother got from some game show she did. It has never been used. I take it out from under the sink, oil it up, and begin preparing dinner. I hear the front door squeak open and the sound of Mom kicking off the very high heels that she always wears to meetings with her agent.

“They make my legs look like they’re still twenty,” she always says.

She pads over to the kitchen and peers over my shoulder as I’m stirring up the veggies with some tofu and ginger soy sauce.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” Mom says.

“I figure if I can whip up a batch of realistic fake eyeballs, I can cook anything,” I say.

Mom laughs so hard spit flies out. So I begin to laugh along with her. It feels good to laugh together.

“I never thought of it that way,” she says. “I could have used that line when I was with your father. Maybe he would have cooked dinner for me once.”

“There’s enough for two,” I say.

Mom doesn’t miss a beat as she sets the table.

For once we are not going to order in and eat from the Styrofoam boxes that separate us into pad Thai and chicken piccata. For once we are not going to eat in different rooms or in front of the television because we don’t have anything to say. For once we are going to eat like a family.

I dole out the portions into the seldom-used bowls, and Mom doesn’t make a big deal out of it or try to force a conversation. She is just Mom. I am just Victoria.

I’m being quiet until Dad is finished working on the delicate veins in the fake bat he’s making. He has used some of the elements that I came up with in the design.

I know that this silent time with Dad, when we are both working side by side, is when I have some of my happiest moments. I want to have this feeling of joy inside of me more than just on Tuesdays. I have a plan.

I open my mouth and ask for something I’ve never asked for before from my dad. I ask him for a real big favor. I don’t know how he’ll react.

Maybe he’ll be mad.

“All my worldly plans are changing,” I say.

“Really? How so?” he asks.

“I don’t think I want to go to college right away.”

“That’s not a big deal. What would you do?”

“I could go to Poland with you and work on
Dracula.
You could use me as an intern. I do real good work. I learned from the best.”

I can’t read my dad’s face. It’s neutral, like one of his masks in a resting position. I can’t tell if he’s pleased or pissed that I want to come hang out and do grunt work for him.

“I learned from the best,” I say again, trying to plead my case. “I want to make it my career.”

“You’re serious about this?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“You’d have to start at the bottom. No special treatment just because you’re my daughter.”

“I’m ready,” I say.

“It’s more complicated than just saying yes,” he says. But I see the wheels turning in his brain, like when he’s trying to solve a problem. I know then that he’s going to try to make it work.

My mom’s Town Car drops me off.

“I’m really sorry I can’t make it,” she says. “I know you’re bummed.”

“You gotta do what you gotta do,” I say.

“I hope this isn’t going to be something that you’ll hold against me in therapy when you’re forty, like I do with my mom.”

I laugh.

“You really want to go to Poland with your dad and not to Greece with me?” Mom says.

“If I go to Greece, I’ll have fun — you know, the Acropolis, Greek myths, and all. But if I go to Poland, I’ll be learning something. I’ll be doing something of my own.”

“I know you are very talented.”

“You do?”

“Oh, yes, Victoria. I’m so proud of how talented you are. I’m really happy you’ve found something that you like to do. Even if I find it horrifying.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I say. “Let me know who you find holding hands.”

Mom salutes me and closes the door and goes off to Mann’s Chinese Theater to the film premiere. I am glad that she’s getting invited to those things. I like seeing her now on
ET
or
Access Hollywood.
I like seeing her laugh so much. I love her telling me stories about walking the red carpet.

My mom is a funny lady.

My comfort level drops, though, once her Town Car pulls away, leaving me alone at the steps of the Beverly Hills Hilton.

I head inside.

“Guest or recipient?” the woman at the registration desk asks.

“Recipient,” I say.

I pull myself up to full height, posture straight. I open my evening jacket that I made myself out of some dyed fake fur and show that I am wearing a very nice outfit, a dress I created this afternoon. I let the woman know I look like a winner because I am one.

“Name?”

“Victoria Jurgen,” I say.

The woman scans the guest list with her finger and then crosses my name off and hands me a badge with my name on it.

“Where’s your guest? Is he or she coming later?” the woman asks.

“No,” I say. “I’m here alone.”

“Here’s your goody bag,” she says, and hands me a heavy canvas bag packed with swag from all the sponsors. Most of it is paper.

“Guess they killed a lot of trees,” I say.

A man standing behind me laughs and I laugh, too. I’m not so nervous anymore.

I am Victoria Jurgen. Winner.