Without Scars (8 page)

“Let me hear it,” I said.

“Okay, here goes. The whole vibe is kinda old school. Lots of instruments. Not too much production.” It was for a Sami-centric episode, and something Samira had been looking forward to filming since we signed with Hillington. My voiceover narration guided the story of the series, but this was the first and only episode where it would be completely from her point of view. There was a scene where Sami masturbated when she found an erotic Tumblr blog on Chuck’s laptop. I was worried about Hillington cutting the scene. It was in my original manuscript, the story that eventually became season one, but Samira and I had played it a lot safer last season. Now, I wouldn’t let it go so easily.

But maybe I needed to rewrite it.

Just in case. To have a backup scenario I could live with if they hated it.  Actually, now that I was reading the script, none of the entire episode was my best work. There were still some lines of dialogue I thought were mediocre.

“You look so excited right now,” Shaw said sarcastically.

“What?” I pulled my hands off the keyboard and smiled but it felt forced. “No, I am. I swear.” I looked back to the screen. Parts of the story diverted from Sami’s true personality, and overall it lacked the intensity I wanted the audience to feel in this episode. Fuck.

I gulped down. Was it time to start over completely?

Shaw groaned and I looked up again. “You gotta give me something, Charlie. You look like you hate it. You want him to rework it? He can, dude.”

“No…no. Sounds good.” It did, and his brother’s work deserved better than this script.

So did Samira.

“Dude…” he said with more impatience. “You’re killing me.”

“I like it, Shaw.” Maybe a little too much. I sighed. I opened another Word document and typed until I couldn’t feel my fingers.

****

Shaw and I rode together later that night for Art Crawl. All the buildings of the old warehouse district had been converted to art galleries and shops, their exterior walls adorned with the graffiti of well-known street artists. Between the buildings were open-air complexes and performance art spaces. With live music, and free food and cheap drinks thrown in, the place was crazy on Sunday nights.

Nikki sent me a text to say she was checking out a local artist’s exhibit. Shaw and I found her standing in front of a watercolor with Ghost, the two of them chatting so fucking happily. It
kinda
bothered me, but I got where he was coming from; Nikki was really fucking pretty and a cool chick from what I could tell so far. I told myself I wasn’t going to be dumb about staring at her like I did last night. There was obviously so much more to her. Still…my gaze drifted down her body (because pretty much Dick for Brains). She was wearing a top with a wide neckline, showing off her shoulder, tight low-rise jeans, which my eyes lingered on, and black flats.

“What’s up, guys?” I said loudly. My teeth were clenched, but I managed to switch to a smile when she and I locked eyes. It was easy to do when she was grinning like she was glad I was finally there.

She stepped away from Ghost and pulled me into a tight hug, melting the icy daggers I was directing at my friend. He cocked his head, laughed, and gave me a couple rough pats on the back as he walked by. “You look really nice,” I said.

“Not nice enough, apparently, if you’re capable of holding a conversation this time,” she joked.

“You looked in the mirror before you walked out of the house last night, right? I’m sure you had the same reaction to you.” She laughed. “How are you?”

“I’m good. Thank you for last night. I know it was a lot,” she said, leading me to one of the galleries.

“Yeah…but I’m glad you told me.” It had opened my eyes to how wrong I’d been about a previous belief. In my mind, drunk drivers were always bros who’d overdone it at their frat houses…not women who looked like Nikki.

“Well…after car break-ins and confessionals, I think I’m ready for just some normal interaction between us.”

“Okay…so, tell me everything else about you.”

“Do you know how long that would take?”

“Yup. It’s why I asked. Accident’s a big story, but you’re…what? Twenty…” I prompted.

“Three. Twenty-three.”

“If the accident was all you were, you wouldn’t be able to tell that story the way you do. I’m exercising the option you gave me. To know the other stuff, so tell me.”

She grinned, looking relieved. “As crazy as it sounds coming from the girl who spilled her guts to you, I’d actually love some small talk that would ordinarily have me rolling my eyes, if you don’t mind,” she said as we took a slow stroll through a gallery. “Rain check on the other stuff?”

“Okay, fair enough. So, you and Ghost came here together?” Clearly, subtlety wasn’t my strong suit. “I mean did you convince him to come, because he normally doesn’t do Art Crawl. He could use the culture, though,” I added, trying to recover from my obvious outpouring of (unreasonable) jealousy.

Nikki laughed and turned a knowing look to me. “You probably didn’t notice I accidentally texted the whole group about Art Crawl before I texted you about it, because I deleted it really quickly. He said he was heading over here, too. I was planning to come alone. I told him that. I’m no Boo Radley, but I’ve learned to enjoy my own company. Then I remembered you sat in a car for hours with me, so I asked you on a whim.”

“Asked
me?
Hold on, I asked
you
.”

She laughed. “Fine. Either way, I’m glad…we’re here together. So, I won’t hold it against you that you still haven’t found my iPod.” At the end of the collection, we headed outside to catch the next showing of the performance art exhibition. In front of us, performers in painted faces and unitards bent themselves into shapes as a spoken word artist performed.

Nikki said, “Maybe I should’ve auditioned for this instead. But then I wouldn’t have gotten my new job. I’m choreographing a high school version of
West Side Story.
”

“Whoa, congrats. And condolences. My sisters are seventeen-year-old twins. When they’re with their friends, so many goddamn dramatic declarations. Ahsha and Priyanka are always ‘
OMG Literally dyiiing. I can’t even!
’” I said as I mocked their voices. “What the fuck? They can’t even
what
? What the hell does that mean?”

Nikki laughed so loudly someone in front shushed us, but the way she beamed was completely worth the reprimand. I smiled to myself. “Oh, I get it,” she whispered. “I have a sixteen-year-old brother. Tyler. He’s not super dramatic but he has his moments.” She sighed. “The kids are excited, though. I saw a few of them when I met with the play director this afternoon. And she’s great. She’s very happy I wanted the job.”

“I knew something was going to work out for you. You just had this look in your eyes yesterday, like you would believe in your dancing no matter what, even if the audition didn’t work out.” Applause rose around us and we turned our attention back to the performance. “Hey…there’s a really cool exhibit a few galleries down I wanted to see next. Do you want to come with me? It’s my friend Amanda’s work. You’ll love it.” The gallery with Amanda’s art was packed, and small groups of people were crowded around the pieces on the walls. Her collection was a reimagining of the Grimm fairytales, taking them back to their twisted, gory origins.

“Now,
this
is art I understand.” Nikki stepped up to the painting of Snow White down on her knees and grabbing her throat, a blackening poison apple on the floor by her hand, which was also starting to decay. “This is amazing.”

“Yeah, she’s really good. She’s designing the logo for our company, and some art for our...” I trailed off when my phone buzzed. Fallon’s number flashed on the screen. Sending it straight to voicemail, I continued talking. “She’s designing art for our office. She charges, like, thousands normally, and she’s doing it for free.” I waved to Amanda as she made her way through the gallery, greeting the attendees. My cell was ringing again, flashing Fallon’s number. Again. We usually didn’t talk unless I wanted to buy.

And, dammit, now that she was on the other end, I wanted to buy. Things were about to get really hectic. Under the contract with Hillington, there were required delivery dates for the scripts and the rough cuts of the episodes, and they had the right to ask for rewrites and reshoots along the way. The cast and crew usually worked late night Friday into all day Saturday, and sometimes all day Sunday. I’d need whatever help I could get. But fuck me, if I was going to tolerate Fallon getting self-righteous.

“Go ahead. Answer it,” Nikki said, forcing me out of my thoughts. “Catch up with me in a few.”

“Okay…cool…sorry about this.” I hurried out of the noisy gallery as I pressed the green answer button. “What’s up? Why the back to back calls, dude?”

“You wanna buy from me?” Fallon whispered, her tone tense with panic and impatience. “Please say you do. There’s a rumor going around that Headmaster Ryan is doing locker searches next week. My locker was
hot
, if you know what I mean.” Well, Fallon was definitely making it easy to write story arcs for
Confessions.
“I had to clear it out during this open house thing they were having at school today. Could you swing by in a little bit?”

“Nope. I’m at Art Crawl.” And I really wanted to get back to Nikki. “Tomorrow?”

“Fuck. I can’t risk keeping so much of it at home or in my car. My parents don’t really buy my argument that my constitutional right against unreasonable search and seizure applies to them. Freakin’ fascists. I’ll come to you.” A car door was already slamming in the background. She was fucking desperate and I was ready to use that to my advantage.

“How much?” I asked.

“Five a pill.”

“Never mind,” I countered.

“Fine. Three.”

“Two-fifty. Final.”

“Fine. I’ll call you when I’m closer.” An engine sparked to life on her end and then she hung up. Back inside the gallery, Nikki was standing with the other people gathered around Amanda.

“Everything okay?” Nikki asked.

“Yeah. Gotta handle something in a bit. I won’t be gone long, though. I’m sorry I’m ruining our…” I trailed off into nothing.

“Our what?” she said, giggling.

“Our…whatever this is that I asked you to come to with me…”

“Still sticking with that story, huh?”

“Charlie Dara,” Amanda called out after she was done fielding questions.

“Hey, Amanda. Good to see you. This is Nikki.” Thankfully, Nikki took over from there, and I excused myself to a corner when my phone buzzed:
I’m almost there. 20
th
Street side.
After a quick stop at a nearby ATM, I cut through the crowd and walked until I spotted Fallon’s idling Lexus.

“Wow, okay, Charlie…you’re
really pretty
under all the scruff,” Fallon said as she unlocked the door for me.

I laughed and passed the money to her. “Remind you of one of your prep school boyfriends?”

She smiled as she counted the bills. “Nope…just your old yearbook photo, class president.” She mumbled a math equation to herself, and then shook a lot of pills into a huge pill bottle.

“Do you sell to my sisters? You never answered.”

She frowned. “Client list is private. I’m giving you a few extra. You don’t even know how much you just helped me out. Miami City Prep has a zero tolerance policy. This could’ve been it for Harvard and me.”

“I really don’t get why you do this, Fall.”

“Maybe I’m bored.” She shrugged. “But I don’t get why you do this, either. Hey, listen. The stuff I gave you yesterday was still from my old doctor.
This
prescription is a little stronger. My rival stole a third of my business. Had to up my game. Just go easy on it, okay? They’re 30 milli a pill.”

“Drug dealer with a heart of gold. Fallon, you’re a goddamn trope.” She fired off a quick wave as I got out, and then she was gone.

I had never bought this many pills from her all at once before, so we were in agreement about me having to pace myself, especially because they were stronger. The truth was, I really liked the stuff. No matter how huge my thought balloon was, the pills always helped me filter everything along a thread until all my ideas were out. And I was usually too happy for any insecurity about whether I was stringing together a coherent story. I could just…write. I felt limitless. And that made them dangerous. I
knew
that. 
Drugs were bad
.

Got it. I paid attention in D.A.R.E.

So as I walked back to Amanda’s exhibit, I made a pledge then that I would stick with a plan: I would only take them when work got really overwhelming and I was short on time, or if I had an idea in the middle of the night that I just needed to get down on paper.

How hard could that really be?

Chapter Six

Nikki

              I circled the ensemble dancers as the song pushed into the last eight-count
.
They were sweating and out of breath. But the moves were still sharp. A few hours ago, only three of them were familiar with
pas de bourrées
and
arabesques.
Now, the choreography was almost polished to perfection. I was so proud.

Or maybe I just wasn’t paying attention like I should’ve been. Charlie and I were having a friendly disagreement over text about the best Cuban restaurants in Miami.

Charlie: Libre? Libre?! Are you
fucking
serious? What the fuck is going on with your taste buds, Nikki? Go get that shit checked out. Please. How can someone so awesome be so wrong about important shit like food time and time again?

Charlie: Next thing I know you’ll be telling me you think golden Oreos are better than the chocolate ones.

Me: LOL. They’re actually better. Sorry not sorry.

Charlie: I don’t even know who you are anymore. Don’t call me. Ever.

Charlie: So I’ll see you later?

Me: Can’t wait. =)

Charlie: Awesome. But don’t call me anymore.

I giggled and some of the students who weren’t part of this dance number looked at me. Every time my phone chimed I got so warm and tingly I felt electric. Like I could short circuit the entire building if I laughed loud enough. Couldn’t keep this stupid smile off my face, either.
You are here to work. You are worse than the kids.
I tucked my cellphone into my bra.

Not only had Charlie and I been hanging out a lot, but we’d also been talking on the phone and exchanging text messages every day for the past three weeks, for hours at a time sometimes. Talking about everything and nothing. Someone might’ve guessed that we’d known each other forever. It sure felt that way. On my part, initially, I was working to erase the image he probably had in his head from the day we met. When I told him about the accident. Yes, I’d been a destructive person once. But now the other parts of me—the better parts—were working to repair those cracks.

“That was amazing!” I yelled out over the dying music as I clapped. “It’s really coming together. I’ll mostly be working with the principals after next week, so
everybody
please make sure you have ‘America’
down when we meet again, or come in with lots of questions. Okay? Have a great rest of the weekend.”

“Thanks, Miss Nikki!” they called out nearly in unison as they hurried out of the school gym. Nope, I was not old enough to be called ‘miss.’

“Just Nikki, guys,” I said, waving. I was already crazy about them. They were very motivated about putting on the best show possible.

While I was grateful for the job, waking up this morning to come here was another devastating reminder that So Cal Ballet was really gone. It wasn’t like I had some delusion of dancing forever, but I wanted to leave a better legacy than being tossed out on my ass. I was the first female soloist of Cuban descent at So Cal Ballet in almost thirty years. I’d been invited to dance with other companies, and had even been part of a documentary on diversity in ballet. It was still hard to accept that I’d screwed up the way I had, and that I would probably never get the chance to fix it. My mood lightened, though, when I walked in today and there was nothing but eager faces. As I’d watched them dance and seen the way they sought my knowledge, it felt like this was the only place I
should
be. I still had a lot to offer with dance. Maybe choreography was it. A dream could be altered and not wholly lost, right?

I locked away the equipment and returned the key to the janitor before exiting the school. Tyler was waiting for me outside at the curb in his Camry. It was so
freaking
embarrassing to have my little brother pick me up. I couldn’t afford a car since wrecking mine. But I hadn’t been able to drive one until recently, anyway, because I had only just gotten my driver’s license back.

Yawning, Tyler unlocked the door and ran his hand through his dark hair. He resembled Mom a lot more than I did, especially with those piercing light brown eyes. “Thanks, Ty. I know it’s early for you,” I said as I got in. “You hungry? My treat.” He grunted. I assumed it was a yes. My brother didn’t fully become a human being until sometime well into the afternoon on Saturdays. I directed him to a twenty-four hour breakfast spot, we ordered to-go meals, and headed to my apartment.

“There are some
hot
girls in your class,” Tyler said as I unlocked the front door. So…my place wasn’t lavish. The furniture I bought just barely fit, and you had to play hopscotch over a few things to get to the bathroom. But I kept telling myself it was my starter place. As in, “This girl needs to
start her
new day job search if she ever wants to move into a better place.”

“Do you make them wear those leggings? Because—”

“Ty, I’m
not
one of your bros.” I rushed to get plates, because I knew he was about to turn the plastic bag he was carrying into one. Keeping Tyler civilized required all hands on deck. “How are things with Lola?”

“Haven’t really seen her all week. I always have so much to do. Now therapy, too.”

“You’re in therapy?” I set the plates and utensils on the table. Tyler’s shoulders tensed up as he walked into the dining room. His eyes shifted rapidly between my face and the floor before he sat down.

“Yeah…it’s…” He cleared his throat and pretended he was too preoccupied with drenching his pancakes in syrup to continue.

“What, Ty?” I whispered. My heart rate sped up. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. It’s Dad’s therapy sessions. He wanted Mom and me to come. Apparently Dr. Schultz suggested it. It was, like, an hour of mostly just Mom and Dad talking about healing and love”—he paused to chew, mouth wide—“blah blah blah.”

“It was a
family
thing?” I pushed the scrambled eggs I’d gotten around my plate with a fork. Sadness beat the walls of my chest. I wasn’t even hungry anymore.

“I guess.” He shrugged. “It’s not like we went to Aruba, Nik. It was boring as shit. I kept pretending I had to take a piss just to get out of there for a few minutes.”

I’d sought help from a therapist after rehab because, well, I’d almost killed four people, and myself, and could’ve potentially hurt more (or killed them). Apparently when you caused trauma, it traumatized you, too. Go figure. Even the Andersons had made me a part of their healing process. They invited me to attend a specialized kind of therapy for victims and perpetrators. We went for almost a year.

Now my own family couldn’t do that for me.

“There are four of us. He didn’t want
me
there, Ty.” I loved my brother for trying to placate me. But knowing that I had been kept out of something so important caused a cut so deep it felt like I was bleeding all over my insides. I felt harsh, cold loneliness all of a sudden, too. “Did you guys talk about me?” I asked.

“Sort of,” he said in a heavy sigh, but the look on his face couldn’t hide the truth. The entire session had been about me. I felt like a semi was revving up in my throat. Deep down, I did understand that my dad was seeing a therapist for
his
well being and not to badmouth me specifically. He needed a place to share his resentment without alienating me. He was doing his best not to hate me. What my head knew didn’t make the pain in my heart any less, though.

The accident was my first DUI offense but, given the circumstances, jail time was a real possibility. So I accepted a misdemeanor plea deal the minute the overworked, fresh-out-of-law-school prosecutor offered with the Andersons’ blessing. During my sentencing hearing, both my parents swore to the judge that I was still a good person with no prior record, who had gotten caught in a temporary cycle of self-destruction.

My mom was standing with the Andersons, and my dad was still in the hospital, still in pain, telling the judge on live feed video that he thought rehab, community service, and probation were better for my life lesson and second chance. There wasn’t even forgiveness in his eyes yet. It scared me so much that I stopped looking for it. But my parents weren’t actually unkind to me at all throughout the ordeal. I was grateful for that. So, I did know I was still loved. I just wasn’t and wouldn’t ever be loved the same as before.

“He called you Butterfly the entire time, Nik,” my brother explained.

I held my breath for a sec and hoped it would bottle everything in. If you couldn’t tell by now, you should know that I cry quite a bit. My emotions were apparently just too big for my body. “What about you?” I cocked my chin at him. “Are you still mad at me?” Even with our age difference, we were always close growing up. We never experienced an obvious rift in the aftermath of the crash, but our relationship had changed. How could he not have contempt for me? I had overshadowed him with my success
and
my downfall. While I was in rehab, our parents separated and almost divorced. They were probably busy arguing over whose fault it was that I had been a closet fuckup the entire time. We’d always had cancer in the family;
I
brought this in
.
Things got so bad that Tyler went to stay with our maternal grandparents for a while. He was a victim, too.

“Is that why you hardly ever visit or call me? Or tell me what’s going on in your life? Do you hate me?”

“You’re different from the person who came back from L.A., and the person who drove the car…when everything happened.” Oh. He hadn’t simply said no. I cringed. Truth flourished in the unsaid. “I know you worked hard in rehab. You’re doing really well with that whole thing now. Just a little down on your luck—”

“I’m
not
down on my luck, Ty…”
Or damaged. Or tragic. Or broken. Or any of those other stupid words people shake their heads pitifully and think because you did a fucked-up thing or when something fucked-up happened to you.
“I have a great job, even if it’s not what I want to be doing. I’m auditioning like crazy…” I wanted to keep defending myself: the Fashion Week work, my own apartment, good health, that
great job
I mentioned came with health insurance, but I was getting too angry. Everyone had to be fucking successful and perfect 24/7 to not be an underdog or messed up? “I guess you’d know things about me if we were closer…”

“I didn’t mean it like that, Nik.”

“Then what do you mean? You don’t ever talk about anything with me. How come no one ever really talks to me about what happened?”

Tyler shrugged. “I don’t know. Okay…look…this whole thing is just in my life…and it wasn’t even my fault. I just…I get pissed sometimes.”

“I’m really sorry, Ty. You were at a point in your life where you should’ve…” My lip quivered but I was determined to get it all out. “You were a kid. You had to grow up really fast and go through things you didn’t need to because of me.”

“Come on…don’t cry. This is why I didn’t really…don’t cry, Nik.” He walked over and hugged me. “Look, a bunch of us are going to Delray later. Jimmy’s dad has a nice house out there. We’re gonna rent some jet skis and parasail, and then crash there tonight. You should come. Dave is kinda into you.”

“Are you trying to make me feel worse?” Being on the receiving end of my brother’s high school buddy’s affections
and
hanging out with them had the same achievement equivalence as winning a prison talent show.

“Dave got held back twice. He’s, like, nineteen. And that cougar shit is in now, anyway, right?”

“Wow, you should
not
consider a career in motivational speaking...ever.” I palmed tears off my cheeks. “Wait…Jimmy…Jimmy Dunham? You’re going to Jimmy Dunham’s place? As in, little brother of Rebecca?” After things went south at So Cal Ballet and I moved back to Miami, Rebecca Dunham, a friend of an old friend, and I vodka-binged our way across South Florida. I had hazy memories of being at that house in Delray. Pouring a handle of vodka down my throat. On a Wednesday. At a rager. That went on until Sunday. “Ty… I don’t think—”

“What? Jimmy’s not like his sister…” he said with some bite in his voice.

And you aren’t like me. Got it.
I didn’t want to rock the boat when I was getting the chance to reconnect with Tyler. I decided not to push the subject. “Well, count me out, but let’s do the go-karts in Fort Laudy today,” I offered. Tyler grinned and nodded. “Oh, I’m excited! I just need to shower and then we can head out in a few.”

He was used to waiting on me, so I took my time in the bathroom, slipping into thoughts of Charlie as I waited for the hot water to kick in. This was getting out of control. I’d started nearly every sentence at work lately with, “Charlie and I were talking the other day and…”

But I did really like talking to him. I really liked hearing about his life, and his show, and his family, which was diverse, even for Miami. His biological father—who had been excited to take Charlie to Nicaragua to meet his extended family someday—died while his mom was pregnant, so his stepdad, who was Indian, was the only father he’d ever known. His twin sisters were also Indian, but they’d been adopted internationally.