Forgive Me (9 page)

Seventeen

NANTUCKET TO STARDOM MY PERSONAL JOURNAL

Today I was discovered. For my whole life, I’ve dreamed and hoped it would happen, and then it did, right after the dress rehearsal of the sixth-grade musical,
Guys and Dolls.
I rocked “Sue Me” and even Mr. Mancussi said, “Good enunciation, pal.” I slid across the floor like it was ice and I was in the Ice Capades. I threw my heart into my arm movements. I even tried to be passionate about my kiss with Louisa Jelly (who totally needs to work on her enunciation. The only song she rocks is “Adelaide’s Lament,” because she’s
supposed
to have a cold in that one). By the end of the show I was gross and sweaty but I felt good because I knew I had done my best.

I do not like taking showers in the nasty Nantucket Elementary gym, so I was still gross and sweaty when I met the talent agent. (Will have to work on this part for the movie version…maybe I can have a dressing room with a private
clean
shower?) He came right up to me and said, “Excuse me, but are you represented by a talent agent?”

“What?” I said, but then I played it cool. I said, “No, I am not currently represented by a talent agent.” Thank goodness I had practiced for this moment in the downstairs bathroom mirror.

Mrs. Jelly, the costume designer and also Louisa’s mom, came over and said, “Nice job, honey. Let me take your hat.”

I nodded and the hat flew off just like I had practiced in front of the downstairs bathroom mirror. I caught it between my thumb and forefinger and handed it to Mrs. Jelly. I gave her my special wink, just like the one that Frank gave the audience in
Our Town.
“Such a ham bone,” said Mrs. Jelly. “Be sure to give me your little suit,” she added, before leaving me alone with the agent.

“I’ve got to say, I’m surprised you haven’t been discovered yet,” he said. (Maybe he didn’t hear the “little suit” comment? I hope not, please I hope not.)

“Really?” I said.

“Can I buy you a hot chocolate?” the man asked. “I’d love to discuss your future. You are a unique talent.”

This is my real story. I am not making anything up. So I promise, I stood in the hallway, next to the row of dented lockers, and this man said, “You are a unique talent.” It was just like I had imagined it, except I thought I would be outside in the snow when it happened for some reason, and I didn’t imagine Rosemary Carmichel eavesdropping while she got
To Kill a Mockingbird
out of her locker.

I said, “Hot chocolate? Wow.” I wish I had thought of something better to say. But I’m writing the truth as it really happened, and the truth is that I said, “Hot chocolate? Wow.” Like most parents, Mom and Dad had not come to the dress rehearsal. I was supposed to call home for a pickup, but I thought fast and decided I could tell them that I had gotten a ride home with a friend. They didn’t know I had no friends.

For some reason, I already knew that I wouldn’t tell my parents about the talent agent. It just seemed like something that could be all mine, and I didn’t want them worrying and ruining it for me. I told Mom once about how I prayed every night to be a star and she looked kind of sad and said, “You’re my star, lovebug, no matter what.” Which means she doesn’t think I can be real star. I don’t need that kind of negative energy! I changed out of my costume, and we walked down the steps of my school.

So this talent agent is super handsome. He looks like Frank Sinatra, the original Nathan Detroit and my idol: tall and with really, really blue eyes. His eyes are the color of the pond behind our house when it freezes and I can dance on it. “My name is Malcon,” he said, “like
Malcolm,
but with an
n.
”

And I go, “Wow.”

He took a puff of his cigar. (How did I know? In my dreams, he had a cigar, too!) At this point, we were walking along Surfside Road. The air tasted salty, and the first of the summer people were crowding the island, their BMWs and Jeep Cherokees parked all over the sidewalks as if they own everything, because, I guess, they do.

Malcon had talked about hot chocolate, so finally, as we passed Windy Way, I said, “Where are we headed?” I’m thinking, maybe Cumberland Farms? Do they have hot chocolate? My dream did not include Cumberland Farms.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Malcon. “I have some hot chocolate in my car, if you’d like, and then I can give you a ride home.”

I knew that Mom would not want me to get in some man’s car. She had told me enough,
Don’t take candy from strangers, Don’t talk to strangers, Don’t get a ride from a stranger, just call me.
To tell you the truth, Mom is a little paranoid. For one thing, there really aren’t any strangers on Nantucket. Hello, the whole island is fifteen miles long. Yes, okay, there are some weird dudes who hang around outside Island Spirits, and Mr. Mancussi said Nantucket has the worst heroin problem in Massachusetts. But it’s not like Malcon was offering me heroin! Officer Brad came to school last year and showed us heroin and burned pot so we could smell it. He showed us angel dust and “rock,” which is what people call crack cocaine. My favorite part was Ginny, the drug-sniffing dog. She can smell drugs in someone’s luggage, but also she was really cute and licked me on the knee.

Anyway, I told Malcon that hot chocolate in his car sounded cool. I was sort of surprised that a big-time talent agent would drive a maroon rental car, but I guess you never know.

We got in the car. There was a six-pack of Budweiser in the backseat, and Malcon offered me one, but I was like, no thank you, I’m eleven. I did have a sip of Dad’s St. Pauli Girl one day while we were fishing, and it tasted like ginger ale gone bad, in my opinion. There was no hot chocolate that I could see.

We drove out toward my house. Malcon started talking about my dance moves, how I have an elegant style. My facial expressions, he said, are very realistic. He also commented on my ability to keep a tune, though not on my enunciation. “I chose you out of all the other kids,” said Malcon. “I’ll make a long story short,” he said, “I think you have a future in show business.”

I am so glad I spent all those hours preparing in front of the bathroom mirror! I kept it cool. I was like, “Thanks, Malcon. I appreciate it.”

“I mean it,” said Malcon. And he turned toward me, and looked me straight in the eye. I had a weird feeling in my stomach. It was a little bit like feeling scared, and also like feeling really happy. Maybe they are the same thing? Dad always says you have to challenge yourself, but he’s talking more about trying out for the baseball team, I’m pretty sure, and not about a man in a maroon Buick sitting really close and staring at you. Malcon said, “Are you familiar with
American Superstar
?”

I felt like I was having a heart attack. Being on
American Superstar
is my most secret, most important dream. I tried to be cool. I said, “Yes.” I decided that Malcon did not need to know that my parents won’t even let us get a television and I have to watch
American Superstar
next door, while pretending to listen to our hundred-year-old neighbor’s war stories. (Doesn’t Mr. Mullen ever wonder why I only come over Thursday nights from eight to nine
PM
?)

And Malcon said, “Local auditions are next weekend in Mashpee. My agency would cover your ferry ticket, of course.”

“Oh,” I said. “Wow. Okay. I just have to talk to my mom and dad.”

“Right,” said Malcon. But he seemed disappointed. I always seem to say the wrong thing eventually.

“What?” I said.

Malcon sighed. He pulled the car over in a sort of dark section of Quidnet Road. It was a little creepy, but having your life change is supposed to feel scary, right? Right. So Malcon puffed on his cigar and opened another beer. “Sometimes,” he said, looking moodily at the can, “parents can be threatened by their children’s impending stardom.”

This was a new perspective on things. The truth is, Mom and Dad have never really supported my acting career. I guess I always thought it was because they were afraid I wouldn’t make it, but maybe they are sort of threatened. I mean, if I got on
American Superstar
I would have to move to Orlando, and even though Mom and Dad are always talking about seeing the wider world, I think they mean more like, the Acropolis. I think they kind of look down on teen stardom. They tell me I can be anything I want to be, but when I talk about being in a boy band or practicing my dance moves, I see how they look at each other. Why is sitting in a drab office any more important than doing the electric slide in front of a million fans?

So I looked at Malcon, and I said, “I know what you mean.”

“It’s up to you what you tell your parents,” said Malcon. “I want you to practice that number, ‘Sue Me.’ But maybe less with the splayed hand shaking.”

“Okay,” I said, though I was a little hurt. I thought my hand stars were pretty rocking.

“I’m happy to meet with you and practice anytime,” said Malcon. “I’ll give you my card, and you can call me day or night.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Now I’m always going to be honest with you,” said Malcon. “And I expect you to always be honest with me.”

“I will,” I said.

“You need to be your very best. You need to sing at the auditions like you have never sung before. Like an angel.”

“I will,” I said, “I promise I will.”

“Why don’t you plan on meeting me at the Hy-Line dock in Hyannis next Saturday at one?” he said.

“Perfect,” I said. “So you don’t need, like, a permission slip?”

Malcon laughed. I liked his laugh, it was really low in his neck. It was a dramatic laugh. “Don’t need a permission slip in the Big Leagues, kid,” said Malcon.

“Oh,” I said, “okay.” And then Malcon drove me home and parked in front of my house. The living room light was still on, and I knew that my parents were waiting for me.

Malcon handed me his card. The card said, “Malcon Bridges, Talent Scout. P.O. Box 3601, Boston, MA 02103. Phone/Fax 617-845-2390.”

Boston! Clearly, Malcon was the real deal.

“Malcon,” I said, as I climbed out of the Buick.

And Malcon said, “Yes?”

“Are you coming to the show this weekend?”

“I’ll do my level best,” said Malcon.

“That’s what my dad says,” I said. I hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

Malcon seemed to see something in me. He looked at me for a while and then he said, “I’ll be there, kid. In the back row. You can count on me.”

I blinked so I wouldn’t cry. “Good night, kid,” said Malcon, and he touched my head with his hand, brushed my hair off my forehead. “You’re going to be a star,” he said.

Eighteen

A
fter what felt like the longest trip of her life, Nadine saw Hank’s green duffel appear on the luggage carousel in Cape Town. Around her, puffy-faced travelers claimed their bags with authority, but when the duffel passed by, she just stared. On the second revolution, Nadine stepped forward, cutting off a heavy woman in stirrup pants.

“Hey!” said the woman. There was a large penguin printed on her T-shirt.

“Sorry.” Nadine grabbed her bag and pulled. It thumped onto the floor, narrowly missing a child’s foot. Over the airport PA system, the Go-Go’s sang,
Va-Cation, all I ever wanted! Va-Cation, had to get away!

Nadine felt woozy, and bent over, putting her hands on her knees. “Are you all right?” said a kind voice: Krispin Irving. Behind him, Sophia stood with her arms crossed over her chest. Five wheeled suitcases were lined up next to her, and she wore a floral sundress—Nadine had seen the same one at the Lilly Pulitzer store—and sandals.

“Do you need a ride?” Krispin asked. “We’re staying at the Victoria…we could drop you off.” Sophia glared at him, her lips in a thin line. She spun around and walked toward the exit, past one billboard advertising wine and one with a picture of a starving baby.

Nadine hadn’t made reservations, but quickly came to a decision. Though she usually stayed at the cheapest place possible, she reasoned that a few nights at the sumptuous Pink Vicky would help nurse her back to health and give her better access to the Irvings. The Victoria was a colonialist-era hotel in the center of the city, made to cater to the tastes of Americans and Europeans on safari. “Thanks,” she said. “That would be great.”

Airline workers in bright jumpsuits watched the arrivals lazily. With her good arm, Nadine lugged her bag behind Krispin as they passed through the security gate, heading toward a man who held a sign reading
IRVING
.

“Welcome to Cape Town! I am Abdul,” said the man, sliding a pair of round sunglasses over his round face. “I will be your driver for your pleasant stay,” said Abdul. Underneath his nose, there was a skimpy black moustache. Abdul hustled them outside the airport.

The Cape Town air was the same: drenched with sunlight and the mingled scents of ocean and car exhaust. Nadine felt a momentary vertigo. She planted her feet on the sidewalk and breathed deeply.

During her ten years in Mexico, Nadine had often imagined her return to South Africa. One of the ways she fell asleep at night was playing the scene in her head: walking outside the airport, hailing a taxi, driving to the Nutthall Road house. Her dream always stopped as the house came into view. If she wasn’t yet asleep, she rewound and replayed, walking outside the airport, hailing a taxi, stepping inside, giving her address. Before the taxi turned onto Nutthall Road, she could imagine Maxim was still inside the house, slouched in his favorite chair, studying his photos, waiting for her. Before the taxi turned, she had not yet failed him.

A
bdul opened the door of his black Mercedes. On the seat, a copy of the
Cape Argus
—just one edition now—lay next to a foil packet of Simba potato chips. Nadine looked at Sophia, who was combing her hair. “For God’s sake, go ahead,” said Sophia. Nadine opened the bag and dug in hungrily.

“It’s not even breakfast time,” said Sophia, disapprovingly.

“May I have some?” said Krispin. Nadine handed him the packet. Abdul pulled out of the airport and turned onto N2, the highway leading to Cape Town. Outside the window, there were marshy-looking fields on either side of the road. Krispin reached out to take Sophia’s hand. She let him take it.

Nadine gazed at Table Mountain. It was over three thousand feet high, and Nadine had forgotten how she loved its enormous presence, cragged and beautiful. The top was absolutely flat, and in the morning, pale shadows ran down the shale and sandstone, spilling over green hills at the base. The light changed depending on the time of day, the time of year, the weather.

“What on earth is that?” said Sophia, pointing to the ethereal white cloud covering the mountain. The cloud seemed to cascade like a waterfall.

“We call this the Tablecloth,” said Abdul.

“My God,” said Sophia, “it’s utterly terrifying.”

Abdul chuckled. “As long as you are in the city and not on the mountain, you are safe,” he said. After a moment, he added, “Well, safe from the Tablecloth.”

“But assholes with rocks,” said Sophia, “watch out.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Abdul looked puzzled. A few minutes later, he announced, “We are passing through the townships.”

On either side of the highway, metal shacks glinted in the sun. Laundry hung from clotheslines, and groups of kids played along the road, some kicking a soccer ball, some just milling around. “Now that Mandela is president,” said Abdul, “everyone moves to the city. There aren’t enough houses or jobs.” On their right, men assembled large concrete boxes. A ratty banner read,
N
2
GATEWAY PROJECT
. The air was stale, and smog hung overhead. The townships were more sprawled than in Nadine’s memory, but they had been created for blacks by the white-run government long before Mandela’s presidency, despite Abdul’s implications.

Nadine remembered visiting Thola’s house in the townships. Nadine had arrived in Cape Town a month after Jason Irving’s death, and was stunned when Maxim told her that Thola’s sister was in jail for Jason’s murder. Hungry for a story to put her on the map, Nadine decided to convince Thola or her mother to speak on record about Evelina. Nadine didn’t want George interfering, so with all of a new reporter’s brio she weaseled Thola’s home address out of him and borrowed Maxim’s car, ignoring both men’s warnings not to go to Sunshine alone.

Fikile, Thola’s mother, answered the door. Her hair was gray. She wore a purple tunic of some sort, layers of clothing. Fikile folded her arms across her chest at the sight of a white woman with a reporter’s notebook. “No,” she said, with less anger than exhaustion. “No interview, sorry.” Her few English words encouraged Nadine.

“But I’m a friend of Thola,” said Nadine, trying to look as earnest as possible. This wasn’t a lie, exactly: Nadine had been living with George and Maxim for a few weeks, and she saw Thola regularly, though by no stretch were Nadine and Thola friends. Not yet.

Fikile looked confused. “Can I come inside?” said Nadine. “I am also a friend of George.”

“Ah,
George,
” said Fikile. She smiled wide, her plump cheeks expanding, and her entire stance changed. Her arms fell open, and she gestured for Nadine to enter the house. “George,” she repeated. “George and Thola,” she said. She laughed.

“Yes, yes,” said Nadine, nodding feverishly. “George and Thola!”

“George and Thola,” said Fikile. Fikile and Nadine faced each other, smiling energetically. Nadine couldn’t imagine for the life of her how she was going to get from this exchange to a front-page exclusive.

The house was dark. Along one wall, pots and pans were organized and scrupulously clean. A cheese grater, propane stove, and ceramic bowls lined the top shelf. A shirt on a hanger was suspended above a bed, and a homemade curtain on a string was pulled away from the windows.

The walls were covered with newspaper cutouts of Thola, dancing or posing in her leotards. She was dazzling: tall and elegant, with impossibly perfect posture. When she walked into the house Nadine shared with George and Maxim, they all lost their breath for a moment. Thola was like that: she sucked the air from a room. It was thrilling to be around her, but also exhausting.

Fikile pointed at the lumpy sofa, and Nadine sat. After bustling in the kitchen, Fikile returned with a tray of tea. Nadine and Fikile sipped tea and nodded periodically, their expressions growing strained. Nadine voiced a few questions—
Do you miss Evelina? Is Evelina being treated fairly in jail? Do you feel that Sunshine is unsafe?
—but Fikile just stared blankly, topping off Nadine’s tea. Finally, Nadine accepted that Fikile didn’t speak English, didn’t want to talk, or both. George had told her that Thola finished work around five, but it was six, and Nadine was sure Fikile had better things to do. Nadine stood, and Fikile rose, too, smoothing the fabric of her wrap.

“Okay,” said Nadine. “Nice to meet you. Thank you for the tea.”

Fikile nodded. She looked relieved that the visit was ending. Nadine let herself out, then stood in the parched square of yard. The township violence had only escalated in the two months since Jason Irving’s murder, and she felt pinpricks of fear as she walked quickly to her car. She had botched completely her goal of securing the first interview with Evelina’s family, and as she drove back to Observatory, the whites-only suburb where she lived, she was crushed.

Thola was at the Nutthall Road house, reclining like a queen across their living room couch. George massaged her feet as they watched
Sgudi ’Snaysi,
a Zulu-language sitcom. “Hello, Nadine,” said Thola, when Nadine walked inside.

“Oh for God’s sake,” said Nadine, “here you are.”

Thola smiled wide and reached for a pecan from a bowl on the coffee table. “Here I am,” she said. She sat up and rolled her head to one side, stretching her lovely neck. “Shoulders,” she said to George, and he began to rub them.

“Listen, Thola,” said Nadine, summoning her courage. “I want to interview you, officially. I want to write a different kind of story.” Nadine swallowed. “I want to write the story that will change Evelina’s life.”

George snorted, and Nadine glared at him.

Thola evaluated Nadine, her eyes narrowing. “I don’t know about that,” she said.

“Will you think about it?” said Nadine.

“Sure,” said Thola. “I’ll think about it while I clean toilets in a white man’s house.”

George laughed appreciatively. Nadine’s face grew red, but she spoke evenly. “Thanks, Thola. I’d be grateful.”

“No charge to think about it,” said Thola.

K
rispin peered out the window of the Mercedes as they drove past the townships. “How many people live here?” he asked.

“Millions and millions,” said Abdul.

“Do you live in a township?” asked Sophia.

Abdul laughed politely. “Oh no, ma’am,” he said. “I am a Muslim, ma’am, mixed race.”

“Just the blacks live in the townships, then?” said Sophia.

“Oh no,” said Abdul. “It’s a complex situation, ma’am.”

“Well, where do you live?” asked Sophia.

“In the Bo-Kapp, ma’am. I can take you there if you like. It’s a mixed area.” Nadine smiled, remembering weekends with Maxim in the Bo-Kapp. One morning, strolling through the colorful streets—the homes and mosques were painted in pastel colors—they heard jazz notes. Nadine and Maxim followed the music and found a group of kids in an alley. The kids wore tracksuits and baseball caps; their brass instruments flashed in the sun. Maxim leaned against a building with Arabic letters spray-painted on it and pulled Nadine to him. Nadine listened to the music, her arms around Maxim’s waist.

“Well, every area’s mixed now,” said Krispin. “Isn’t that right, Abdul?”

Abdul laughed again. “If you say so, sir,” he said.

The road led out of the smog and into bright air laced with eucalyptus. The shacks were replaced by low, green bushes and stucco houses with ceramic roofs. Abdul drove higher and higher, and then, in a flash, the Atlantic Ocean came into view.

Krispin said, “Ah,” and squeezed Sophia’s hand. The water was light blue and vast, huge ships and metal machinery lining its edge.

“I will take you to a restaurant by the sea for dinner,” said Abdul. “A restaurant called the Green Dolphin.”

“That sounds perfect,” said Krispin. He turned to Sophia. “Do you think he went there for dinner?” he said. “The Green Dolphin?”

“Oh, Krispin,” said Sophia, “who the hell knows.” Nadine cast a quick glance at Sophia, taking in her weary expression.

“We have an Outback Steakhouse,” said Abdul proudly. “We have the Body Shop.”

Sophia began to cry quietly. Krispin pulled her to his chest and closed his eyes.

“On your left,” said Abdul, “the Cape Town City Hall.” He gestured to a building lined with cream-colored columns and ornate engraving, a clock tower at the top. Palm trees surrounded the building.

And then they were barreling down Long Street, with its sagging balconies and seedy restaurants. They turned onto Orange Street, and then Abdul slowed and with gravity announced, “The Victoria.”

Nadine remembered the enormous pink pillars, the brass letters spelling
THE VICTORIA HOTEL
. A man stood in front of the pillars, tiny in comparison. He wore a blue suit jacket with an insignia on the front pocket and a beige pith helmet. Nadine had been to the Victoria once before; Maxim brought her to the hotel bar to celebrate her twenty-sixth birthday. They felt out of place among the white elite, overwhelmed, and moved to a rattier locale after one glass of champagne.

The man leaned down to Abdul’s car window. “Welcome to the Victoria,” he said. In his hand, he held a clipboard. “Name, please.”