Girl Act (23 page)

“Tristan told me. I’m doing the airport part,” he said.

“Cool, bro,” I said, letting out the biggest sigh of relief. I would have hugged him, but I was in character and needed to stay in character. Gabriel and Shadow watched as the cop and social worker entered the unmarked car. We wanted to get there early so as not to draw attention from the neighbors, and it was Saturday. We didn’t talk during the drive over from Cambridge to Chelsea; we were well rehearsed, and knew what to do.

It unfolded like this: we arrived at the house, the cop knocked on the door, the mother answered, and I, as the social worker, spoke first.

“I’m from Boston’s Children Social Services.”

She opened the door, we stepped in without hesitation.

“We’re removing your daughter Cassidy due to physical abuse by (his name). She will be placed with another family member,” I said, word-for-word.

The mother was smoking a Marlborough and we followed her into the living room, right off the hallway entrance.

“Who says?” she asked. Her eyes were glazed, she appeared out of it, but I wasn’t sure what from. The room was gloomy. Only a ceiling light and the TV, with low volume were on. It was a messy, sad, crummy living room, with cheap used furniture.

“She’s to be removed now,” I said, not backing down.

“Yeah?” the mother asked, without any emotion. Thank God, Cassidy came in the room.

“Get your things, we’re taking you out of here today,” I said.

“Tell them they’re wrong,” her mother said, glaring at her.

Cassidy lifted up her Miley Cyrus T-shirt, showing welt marks from the belt her stepfather used (it was horrifying) and I had to hold my breath.

“GET YA CLOTHES,” the cop yelled, in a perfect Boston accent. The mother stared at the floor like she was trying to find something—suddenly he rushed in, his face was round, his nose was thick and his gut protruded over black boxers. He wore black socks and his hands were fists.

“Get the F*** out,” he said, about to punch Tristan, (cop). But he stepped back, and the stepfather fell against the wall. Then Tristan grabbed him, locking his hands behind his back.

“You stupid? You wanna go to jail?” Tristan the cop asked in a mean voice.

“This is my house, I call the shots,” he barked.

“Not anymore,” Tristan the cop countered.

“F*** you!” he shouted.

“Leave him alone,” her mother said.

“Shut the F*** up, bitch,” he yelled.

Cassidy was carrying a small duffle bag (I think she must have packed it the night before).

“I’m ready,” she said.

“Sign this, or he’ll go to jail for assaulting an officer,” I said.

The mother turned and looked at me. I thought she’d put up a fight, but she grabbed my pen. I had the guardian release form on a clipboard.

“Your daughter will live with another family member. When she’s eighteen, she’s free to do as she wants. She may contact you at any time, but it will be up to her. She will no longer be under your care; you’re signing away your rights to her,” I said.

She signed. Tristan waited for my signal, I checked the signature and nodded. He let go of the stepfather, but not before giving him a sharp warning.

“F*** yourself,” the stepfather said as he slumped onto the dingy couch.

“What?” Tristan the cop asked.

“That’s to her, not you officer,” he answered.

I wanted to hit him myself, but I didn’t. I took a deep breath.

“This way,” I said.

We headed to the front door, as he continued to shout at her, “You brat, slut, piece of trash (cuss, cuss, cuss).” Cassidy was shaking, tears rolling down her face as she followed me. Tristan (cop) was the last to leave. We entered the unmarked car, Cassidy and I in the back seat. The cop was behind the wheel again, and he drove us to Logan Airport, which took all of five minutes. While he drove, Cassidy and I talked about the following: “When will I meet Helen?” she asked, her nose running and her eyes glazed.

“You won’t. I’m sorry to inform you, but she passed away, but not before contacting us,” I said. I couldn’t drop out of character, too many years of acting. Also, Tristan and I had agreed that our secret rescue mission was our own secret and no one else’s. So don’t tell!

Tristan found a few napkins and passed them over. I waited while she blew her nose.

“Not fair, I wanted to meet her, badly. I knew she would understand my secret,” Cassidy explained, still tearful.

“Not a secret to keep. Now, your grandmother is waiting for you and you will live with her. This is your airline ticket, and pen pal letters. And in this change purse is travel money. I won’t be coming with you, but an undercover agent will be on the plane to make sure you arrive safely. From Jacksonville, you’ll take a long taxi ride down to Saint Augustine, right to your grandmother’s door. Just act confident,” I said. Cassidy nodded.

FYI, we used a pre-paid credit card to buy her ticket with.

“She didn’t care,” she said, and I knew she was talking about her mother. I wanted to say so many terrible things about her mother, but I knew it wasn’t my place.

“Deep down, she wants you happy,” I said. I passed Cassidy the ticket, letters and change purse (actually it was a nice chunk of Gabriel’s Foxwoods win; to help her get a new start with).

“When you get off the plane, grab a taxi,” I reminded her.

“I can’t wait to be with my grandmother,” Cassidy said.

“Here’s something from your pen pal, take it with you,” I said.

Cassidy took the jean jacket. She studied the words on the back, I AM MYSELF, and then on the inside where it was embroidered with
To Cassidy from your pen pal Helen
and then she got out and headed towards the Jet Blue sliding doors. That’s when I saw Gabriel. He had on new black jeans, and a Red Sox jacket and cap as he went in the door just behind her. He didn’t miss a second; if only his mother could have seen him. Wow.

Tristan pulled the unmarked car away and off we went—a mile or so later he pulled into a Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot and quickly changed in the front seat into his faded jeans and green T-shirt and work boots.

“I thought I was going to have to pummel that bastard into a pulp,” he said with a huff.

“Well, I thought I was going to have to jump on his back like Joe Pesci did in one of those
Lethal
Weapon
films,” I said, laughing.

“You should take the wig and stuffing off, I’ll go get us some food,” he said.

“Tristan?” I said. He looked at me through the rear-view mirror. “We did a good thing,” I added. He winked and got out.

I took off my wig, the jacket and blouse. I was so ready to lose the top-heavy breasts and stomach padding. Okay, maybe I overdid it, but it looked real. As I yanked off the belly padding, Tristan got in the back seat with the Dunkin’ goodies.

“I like the stomach, but the boobs were a bit too much,” he said.

“Ha, ha,” I said.

“The blonde wig’s better,” he added.

“Well, I don’t think we’ll be rescuing teens on a regular basis,” I said.

He sipped his coffee as I slipped into pair of leggings, a black V-neck dress and ballet flats.

“There were two girls I remember being abused, and as a kid I never thought I could protect them. I just tried not to think about it,” I said.

“Yeah, I know.”

“We made up for that today, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, maybe. Hope she gets a happier life in Florida,” he said.

“She will,” I said, because I can’t help but believe in ‘happy endings’. After all, if I was making a film, the ending scenes would be Cassidy attending a new high school where she fit in, and yes, in the last shot, falls in love with a super-kind high-schooler. Fade out, the end! I can’t sing, but when I was looking at Cassidy, I could hear that song,
Sixteen Going on Seventeen
from the film
The Sound of Music
. The innocence was so missing from Cassidy’s face, from her body, from her speech and her life and I wanted her to get it back.

I thought about when I was sixteen, and the tall, dirty-blond guy, named John, from Jamestown, Rhode Island, came up to visit his friend Abigail Borowitz, a girl who had just moved to Cambridge. I went to her apartment, not far from M.I.T. Everyone was drinking Southern Comfort, only I didn’t. I don’t know why drinking and drugs weren’t my thing, but I sat in the circle and watched him. There was another John there, so he was John H. and I thought he was so beautiful and I wanted him to want me. I was thinking that, “want me, want me”. We left Abigail’s mother’s apartment (her father still lived in RI) and one of the senior guys drove us to Brookline to an ice cream shop that’s no longer there. We went in and I sat down at a booth.

Then Abigail came up and she said, “John H. won’t come in because he likes you.” I was shocked; it was like getting a gold medal, an Oscar and a Tony award all in one second. My first real ‘crush’ guy, and he liked ME. I walked outside the ice cream shop and found John H. leaning against a leafless, skinny tree. He didn’t look at me, but I looked at him, his beautiful forehead leaning against the tree.

“Want to come in and have ice cream with me?” I asked. It was all I could think of. He turned his face and glanced at me, still keeping his forehead against the tree.

“You want ice cream?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said, as I nodded.

I suddenly felt my heart racing and I didn’t know how to talk. Why was I so shy then? Anyway he moved away from the tree and next to me and we went back in together. I felt like I was wearing the largest crown on my head, I felt that GOOD. That amazing!

It was a special night, but then he went back to RI (he was going to high school there and lived with his family, and soon after that my mother met her Panamanian prince charming and ran away from me and my father). And I gave up on ‘true’ love, heartbeats, and innocence. That’s why I screwed the guy in a closet at a party, just to get the virginity thing over with.

“Two dollars to know what you’re thinking about?” Tristan asked. I opened my eyes and eyed him, snapping back to the present-moment, the moment I don’t often want to live in.

“Innocence. It doesn’t last. One way or another, it goes away,” I said.

“Right,” he said.

We ate our tuna fish sandwiches on toasted bagels. FYI, I eat seafood two or three times a year.

“You’re a talented actress, you better not quit,” he said.

“You played one hell of a Boston cop, perfect accent,” I said.

He leaned in and I felt my heart start to beat, it was scary. I glanced down at my hands. Suddenly I felt really shy.

“I’m twenty-nine and I think that was one of the most important things that I’ve done in my life. I didn’t get to save my friend, but seeing Cassidy get out at Logan Airport was—” he stopped himself.

“Ditto on that,” I added figuring he didn’t need to spell it out.

“Only you and I will remember it forever,” Tristan said as he crumpled up the Dunkin’ Donuts bag. I didn’t know he was twenty-nine, but I liked knowing it.

“Don’t you agree?” he asked.

“I agree 100 percent,” I said.

He got out of the back seat of the unmarked car and I sat there, stunned. I had wanted to kiss him. I felt like I had wanted that moment, but I’m old fashioned. If a guy wants to kiss a girl, he makes the move. Paloma had made the first move (with a few guys, years ago), but that’s because she can. Not me. I just don’t like getting rejected. Acting is filled with rejection. Why get any more from a guy?

Besides, maybe he has a girlfriend, maybe she’s in the UK, or traveling abroad, or just busy. Tristan got into the front seat and drove us back to Marblehead to return the unmarked car to Mark. We put my wig and the cop uniform in a trash bag and dumped it into Mark’s trash can. I no longer needed the cop uniform, and the wig wasn’t one I ever wanted to wear again.

Tristan drove us to Gloucester, where he said he needed to pick something up. He parked near the Fisherman’s Wharf.

“What are you getting?” I asked.

“Just time,” he said.

And we walked along the water walkway in the quaint historical seaport town.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Shocked, happy, kind of sad, but not really sad,” I said, sounding like a nervous airhead.

“Me, too,” he said. We sat on a huge rock and watched the boats on the ocean.

“You just wanted to come here to do this?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said.

He really was a super-cool guy, and I was so glad Laurel hadn’t slept with him. Not that I was thinking of sleeping with him, because I wasn’t. After all, I’m on the hunt for Mr. Darcy/AKA Romeo, and not a fling.

“What are your plans?” he asked.

I told him how confused I was since I had no car, no home of my own, and I wasn’t sure if New York was the place I should try again or if returning to Los Angeles was the better choice.

“It will reveal itself,” he said.

“Ha ha, you sound like an old sage,” I said with a laugh.

We walked away from the rocks, and as we headed back to his Land Rover, he put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed it.

Later that evening Tristan cooked dinner while I finished ironing Laurel’s wedding drapes. She had sent twenty-two text messages letting us both know that she was arriving the following day. It was about to begin—her wedding celebration.

Gabriel arrived after midnight and we all sat in the kitchen, while he filled us in on the flight, the snack food, the taxi ride from Jacksonville to Saint Augustine and watching Cassidy hug her grandmother, who wasn’t an ‘old’ woman. In fact, she was one of those suntanned, super-fit-senior-types.

“She walked through the condo complex door and it shut. That was it, I turned around and high tailed it back here,” Gabriel said and we clapped. I mean, it was the best ending. Could it be that easy? It was for her. As soon as Gabriel pulled out a new puzzle, Tristan made his goodnight exit.

“Laurel’s back tomorrow for her wedding. After that, I have to find a new direction in life,” I said.

“Yeah, so do I,” Gabriel said, as I walked him into the living room.

“Just spend some hours at Harvard one more time, and think about finishing it,” I said, like a good older sister would.