Boy Proof (9 page)

“Hey, Egg, I got some new titles put aside for you,” Martin says. “
Bota Life, Ratgirl, The Justice Clan . . .
”

“Oh, yeah. Cool.” I am distracted.

If I were in a comic book, I would be the superhero, the one who was laughed at in school but was truly a genius. The Invisible Girl in my real life, Extraordinary Girl in disguise.

“I think you’re really going to like this new post-apocalyptic series called
BenBoy,
” Martin says. “It’s like science fact and future environmental crisis distopia with a twist of coming plague.”

“Uh-huh,” I say.

If I were a survivor at the end of the world, I would load my vehicle up with food and water and single-handedly save humanity. I would seem so gruff that no one would know about my loving, caring heart. Its absence, I am convinced, would be greater proof that it was there.

I walk around the store and look at the action figures and new comics.

“Guess what I heard today on the Net?” Martin says, coming up behind me.

“What?”

“The
Terminal Earth
DVD is coming out in April.”

I stop dead in my tracks and close my eyes. At last, one piece of good news. My shitty day has been saved.

“But they announced the release date for the summer,” I say.

“That’s going to be the special edition. This first one is just going to be the movie, with no extras on it.”

“That’s great news,” I say. “That’s fucking kick-ass.”

“Hey, you know who seems pretty cool?” Martin says.

“No, who?” I say.

“That new kid Max,” Martin says.

I feel like I’m going to throw up.

“What?” Martin says.

“I don’t know. He kind of annoys me,” I say.

“I asked him if he wanted to join the Science Fiction and Fantasy Club, but he said no,” Martin says.

“Why would you ask
him
to join?” I say.

“The guy had me write a list of thirty-two comics to track and collect for him. Stuff from everywhere. He’s got great taste,” Martin says. “And he bought a whole bunch of action figures. Obscure stuff.”

“Whatever. Catch you later,” I say, forking over my cash for the comics. I would love to get a peek at that list, though. I’m sure his taste in comics lies close to my own. How could Nelly ever appreciate the fine passion of comic-book collecting?

“Oh, and hey,” Martin says.

“What?”

“I really liked your photo-essay in the
Lion
today.”

“Thanks,” I say, and smile. It feels more like a grimace. Smiles don’t set well on my face.

I pull my cloak together and walk home.

There are a bunch of projects I need to finish. I pull out the sewing machine and unbag the fabric I got from Dad’s workshop and begin working on winterizing my Egg cloak.

I don’t need a pattern. I eyeball the fabric and rip and tear and edge and age the cloak with ease.

“I can’t work when you’re hovering.” I don’t look up, but I know that my mom is standing right behind me.

“Sorry,” Mom says, and undoes herself from standing still. The energy in the room all of a sudden moves more freely. Mom comes up right next to me. She has too much perfume on. She must have a date.

My fingers fly on the machine; my foot pumps.

“You really are very crafty,” Mom says.

“Thanks,” I say.

“You could be a fashion designer. That might be a good career for you. Paris Fashion Week. Milan. Rome. I could sit in the front row. ‘Victoria Jurgen, Ursula Denton’s daughter, showed her new line this week.’”

Even my mom’s fantasies about me star her.

“Mom,” I say.

“What?”

“Let me make something perfectly clear so that there is no possibility for a misunderstanding.”

“Okay.”

“I’m not ever, never, ever, not at all ever, going to become a FASHION DESIGNER!”

“But you have a gift,” Mom says.

I hold up my finished cloak and put it on. It fits perfectly.

Mom follows me into the hallway.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“Out.”

“No, Victoria. It’s a school night.”

I stick my fingers in my ears to show her that I’m not listening. I walk out the door and into the dark, dark night.

“Hello?” I yell into the apartment.

“Well, at least I don’t have to spend any more time worrying this evening. Thank you very much,” Mom says.

She’s in the living room with her feet up, smoking a cigarette and drinking a glass of red wine.

I cough. I grasp my throat. I throw my book bag on the living-room floor. I fall to the ground and twitch.

Mom applauds.

“Bravo, Victoria,” she says. “I don’t know why I’m the actress in the family when clearly you have all the talent.”

I prop myself up on my elbows, and Mom does me the favor of stubbing out her cigarette.

“Okay. Now that I’m done being angry with you, I’ve got a surprise for you,” Mom says.

“Really?” I say. “I kind of doubt it.”

“No, you’ll like this one.”

“I’m all ears.”

Mom takes a deep breath. I realize that she’s excited. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen Mom really excited about something.

“Lark Austin is wooing me to be in her new film.”

My jaw hits the floor.

“The Greek Mythology trilogy?” I say.

“Yes,” Mom says. “She wants me to play Hera.”

I nearly shit my pants, have a heart attack, bulge my eyes out of their sockets, and explode. Well, not really. But I might as well.

“
You? You
play Hera?”

In the Science Fiction and Fantasy Club, we have been trying to put a dream cast together for the Greek Mythology trilogy, and it has never, once, ever, included my mother in the role of Hera.

“Yes! We’re still negotiating, but it looks real good,” she says.

I can’t believe it. My mom might actually be in something that I think is cool.

“Anyway. I’ve been invited to the premiere of her new movie at the Egyptian Theatre, and there’s a reception, and I thought I would make you my date.”

Mom’s face is like the sun, big and hot and bright and happy.

“Saba Greer will be there, and I know how much you like her,” she says.

This can’t be happening. My mom can’t actually start becoming cool.

“I’m already going,” I remind her. “I volunteer at the Cinematheque. I’m working the reception. Jesus, Mom, take some notes or something. I live on this planet, too.”

Mom’s face falls. She thought she finally had the key to getting in with me. I think she thinks she’s trying.

“Well, we can still make it kind of like a date. Won’t that be fun?”

“I’ll be there early.”

“Oh. Well then,” she says. “Okay.”

I retreat down the hallway and go to my room and throw myself on my bed.

I turn and notice my masks staring at me. They sit on the shelf, passing judgment. They are grotesque and accusatory and I deserve it.

When I was a little girl, my mom and I were always laughing together and doing goofy things. We actually got along. Then, one day, we suddenly lost the ability to understand each other.

Despite my tough exterior, my I-don’t-care attitude, my thick-skinned, slit-eyed meanness, I feel shitty about being horrible to my mom. She didn’t do anything except try to be nice to me.

I discover that my cheeks are wet and I am crying.

My prosthetic nose keeps dipping into the spoon and getting wet with vegetable soup. I told the makeup assistant person that I could take it off for lunch and put it back on by myself; I even told her I had the adhesive with me in my bag, but she didn’t believe I could do it.

I told her that I thought the makeup guy was not as good as my dad. I told her that even I could do the special-effects makeup on this TV movie better than her. I told the producer of the show, too. But the producer refused to be influenced by me.

I hate all the other extras on the set, so I bailed on the free bagels and wraps and went to the commissary. Here at least I can read my book in peace and not talk to all the wannabes and weirdos that make up the background players.

I pull the nose off, meaning the makeup people will be upset with me, but fuck it. It’s annoying to eat with, and I don’t want to sip my soup through a straw.

I open my bag and take out my book,
The Stars My Destination,
and begin to read. I should study my math, but it’s Saturday and for once I don’t want to do homework.

After lunch, I head back to the set and into the makeup trailer to put my nose back on.

“Hello?”

They must all still be eating lunch. I make my way up into the empty trailer and run my hands along the countertop. I examine all the stuff. There’s a clear tackle box full of ears. Another one full of noses. There are Styrofoam heads on shelves, with various latex parts pinned to them. The heads have the actors’ names emblazoned on their foreheads in black Sharpie pen.

I close my eyes and listen to the sounds from the studio. The golf carts. The crackle of walkie-talkies. The extras, the actors, the crew walking by the open door of the trailer. I feel good in the makeup truck. Like I can breathe.

I motivate myself and rummage in my bag until I find the adhesive to secure my nose. Then I sit in the chair and begin applying.

“What are you doing in here?”

I look up into the mirror, and standing behind me is the head makeup guy.

“My nose came off.”

“It shouldn’t have come off.”

“Okay, I pulled it off so I could eat my soup. I’m putting it back on.”

“Did you go through my drawers?” he asks, motioning at the open drawer.

“Yeah, you used a different kind of adhesive from the one I have in my bag.”

“Ah, you must be Victoria. Ursula told me about you.”

He comes over and examines my work. Makes a slight color adjustment of the nose, blending in the edges. Then nods to himself.

“Good work,” he says. Then he extends his hand. “I’m Jacques. I heard you were telling the producer you could do my job better than I can.”

I feel kind of stupid hearing my words thrown back at me, but I look at him even-steven.

“I know how to do this. My dad taught me, and he is the best.”

“I know who your father is. He’s
one
of the best. I am another one of the best.”

“Then why are you supervising makeup on a Movie of the Week?” I ask.

He stares me down. His face changes. Then it challenges.

“Grab the noses and ears and follow me.”

“Really?” I say.

“Really. They’ve just called in thirty new extras and I could use a hand.”