Off the Record Page 4

  The mall is gigantic, so there are several different stores to choose from. Maggie starts with this boutique near the entrance. I doubt she has enough money to buy us anything from this place. There’s a handful of other women, and they’re all white.

  “This looks kind of nice,” Maggie says, pulling out a long purple dress. “What do you guys think?”

  “I don’t think I could walk in it,” Alice says. “It’s too long.”

  “But that’s kind of cool,” I say. It’s pretty plain otherwise, basically a long piece of fabric. “It would be like having a train behind you, almost like a princess.”

  Alice raises a brow but doesn’t say anything. A woman behind us folds a bunch of shirts on a giant wooden table. Maggie steers us toward another rack. The white women glance at us. One whispers in another’s ear. I turn to Alice. Her eyes are narrowed.

  “I like this,” Maggie says, pulling out a romper. “What do you think?”

  It’s light orange, with long, loose pants, flounce cap sleeves, and an open back. The sort of thing I imagine all of the fancy ladies in L.A. wearing. It could look like a dress or a shirt-skirt combo and a romper, all at once.

  “I love it.” I run my hand across the material. It’s soft. “Are you thinking of getting it? How much is it?”

  Maggie glances at the price tag, eyes widening.

  “Maggie?”

  “Don’t think about that.” She tucks the tag back. “See if you like it.”

  “I think that woman is following us.”

  Alice’s voice is a whisper. Since I’m obvious, I turn my head. The same lady from the table is right behind us. She spots me looking and quickly turns toward a rack of clothes. My cheeks burn. This sort of thing happens, but not all the time. I want to leave and I also want the romper.

  “Ugh. Ignore her,” Maggie says, turning back to our rack. “Come on, Josie. Let’s see if they have your size.”

  The biggest is an extra large and there’s only one, so Maggie makes me take a large along with me to the changing room. She and Alice grab different rompers—one black and white, another with polka dots—and follow behind me. The same worker somehow ends up over there. Alice gives her a glare that could kill. She still doesn’t move.

  It doesn’t take my sisters long to get their outfits on. Shopping is different for them. They both fit in mediums. Next to me, they look older, sexy. Maggie’s had a baby and has bigger, wider hips as a result. Alice doesn’t have as many curves as us, but she always looks beautiful, especially with her dark gaze pinning down her reflection in the mirror.

  The large doesn’t even close on me. It pinches my stomach. The extra large actually fits, but some parts look exaggerated, highlighted. I doubt I look like the models who wear this on the store’s website.

  My sisters are silent. I stare at the three of us in the mirror: the two of them looking like models, me looking like me. Alone, there’s nothing wrong with that, but it’s hard when I’m next to them. The world compares me to everyone else, and so now I do it like a reflex.

  “Maybe we can see if there’s something bigger?” Alice says, glancing at Maggie. “Maybe in the plus section?”

  The plus-sized section is always hit or miss for me. Parts of my body are bigger than others—my thighs, stomach, and boobs, especially—but plus-sized clothes never take that into account. It’s why nothing looks right on me.

  I hate this part. I hate when they look at me like I’m a kicked puppy on the side of the road. When everyone goes quiet and all we can hear is Britney Spears playing in the store. It’s easy enough to tell myself that being fat isn’t wrong when I’m alone or on Twitter. Being fat in the real world, around everyone else, even family, is completely different. But what’s the alternative? Never leaving the house?

  I like fancy clothes that look like art. I doubt I’ll ever look like I’ve stepped out of a magazine, because I’ve never seen girls like me on the glossy pages, but I can imagine while watching my sisters. I’m good at imagining.

  “No.” I dig my nails into my palm. “Forget it. I like it like this.”

  And I do, sort of. My stomach just bunches and my boobs look like they might burst out of the top. But I like the rest of it. I’ve had to spend a lot of time getting used to my body. I could get used to this romper. If Maggie’s buying, I don’t mind. I should get to have nice things.

  “We look fucking awesome,” Alice says. “Maggie, take a picture.”

  Taking pictures in dressing rooms is our thing. We’ve done it ever since Maggie first went to prom and needed to try on dresses. Back then, both of them tiptoed around the word, like they were afraid to call me fat. It’s not that big a deal. Using words like full-figured just makes it worse. I can see how awkward people get as they search for the right word to say.

  Fat is what they’re thinking. Fat is what used to make me cry at night when I was in middle school. So it’s the word I use when I describe myself. It’s a word I want to strip of negativity, like how other Black people try to do with nigga.

  Alice might be lying about how we look, but I don’t mind. I don’t look horrible. I just look different. At least I’m only here with my sisters. I couldn’t handle being the odd one out around strangers.

  Maggie’s camera flash makes me blink. Alice laughs and I surprise myself, snorting.

  “Okay, okay,” Maggie says, shaking her head. “A few more. Come on.”

  She takes a few more from different angles. I used to hide in the back, but I don’t anymore. From up high, all you can see is my face. I don’t mind that. I hated my face back in middle school. Maybe I’ll like the rest of my body one day. Right now, I don’t mind being too fat in this romper. I’m glad for this moment.

  @JosieTheJournalist: end conversion therapy 2k21 because WHAT THE FUCK WHY IS THIS A THING???

  California is flatter than I thought it would be.

  That’s all I can think on Saturday after we land, after we check into our hotel, after we get an Uber to the movie theater. The sun shines down on us, palm trees gently swaying side to side, and everything seems flat. If there are bumps in the road, I don’t feel them. Everything is smooth.

  Unlike me, Alice doesn’t seem interested in just looking out the window. She spends the entire ride taking pictures of everything on her phone: the car, the scenery outside, and even me.

  “What?” she says. “Don’t you want to remember this when it’s over?”

  “We just got here,” I say. “You’re not allowed to talk about going home yet.”

  She rolls her eyes and turns back to the window.

  The movie theater looks like the ones used on TV as establishing shots before the camera swings to the red carpets of glitzy premieres. Alice thanks our driver while I get out and stare. It’s less flashy in the daytime, but there’s something charming about that, like a face without makeup.

  “So this is it?” Alice glances up at the sign, squints. “I don’t see anything about incidents or streets.”

  “I don’t think they put press screenings on the marquee.”

  “Sure.” She glances at me. “Do you know what we’re doing?”

  No, I want to say, I have no idea what we’re doing. I haven’t done this before. I’m not even sure what to expect.

  “Yeah,” I say, fingering the press pass in my pocket. “Come on.”

  I’ve never been to a press screening before. And, to my surprise, no one seems to be freaking out as much as me. There’s a table set up in the lobby where people show their press credentials to a bored-looking woman with red hair. For a second, I’m worried she’ll ask me questions—why I’m so young, why I only have one press pass when Alice is with me, who I’m writing for—or even just try to make conversation, but she barely looks up as she checks my name off the list. I breathe a sigh of relief.

&nbs
p; “What is this about again?” Alice asks, leaning close to me as we walk into the theater. “Am I going to cry?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, shrugging. It’s almost comforting to have her so close to me. In a sea of strangers, she’s the nearest thing to a lifeline I have. “You might.”

  The movie is about a gay kid sent to a conversion camp and the lasting impact it has on him and his family. Alice isn’t really into Oscar bait, so I’m not sure if it’s wise to tell her. She’ll figure it out on her own.

  Most of the people inside are middle-aged and white. At least there are a few women. Alice pulls me toward the front before I can linger.

  “We’re too close to the screen,” I say, watching her throw her bag down. Her phone remains firmly in her grip. “I can’t see.”

  “Yes, you can. That’s the point of a theater. You can see anywhere.”

  “Alice.”

  “Josie,” she snaps, looking up. People are staring now. My face burns. “I’m not moving. Go sit in the back if you want.”

  “God,” I say, slumping into my seat. “I don’t know why you have to be such a bitch.”

  “This bitch is the reason you’re here in the first place.”

  I open my mouth to reply, but the lights dim. Maybe they’re starting the movie early to get us to shut up.

  There are the normal coming attractions—a Marvel movie, an action-adventure about cars, and a TV documentary about Roy Lennox, this director who has won about a million Oscars and has, according to the trailer, been making movies for over twenty years. Then, finally, the movie starts.

  One thing is clear about ten minutes in: reading about it and seeing it are two different things. I’ve read early reviews raving about Marius Canet’s performance as his character, Peter, but their words didn’t do him justice. I’m not sure how my words will do him justice. He doesn’t say much—his character speaks less and less as the movie goes along, as his parents force him away, as he’s forced to leave his boyfriend, as he returns to a family he doesn’t understand—but it’s more impactful, in a way.

  Watching him hurts so much that it feels like he’s tearing me apart, slowly, from the inside out. The back of my throat burns with unshed tears.

  Other people are taking notes, nodding, but none of them seem as choked up as me. Alice’s eyes are unusually bright, though.

  All I can think about is how young he is. Even though he’s Black, his face seems paler in certain scenes, pale enough that I can see everything going on inside him. And he does this thing where he cries and the skin around his eyes gets red. His eyes go searching, everywhere, every corner of the frame, like he’s looking for the audience to help him out. I guess I’ve never seen someone this young who can act and say things without opening his mouth. Not since, like, Quvenzhané Wallis in Beasts of the Southern Wild. Even then, there’s something different about this. Something more mature.

  I haven’t had much time to think about interviewing Marius Canet. I’ve been too busy packing and fielding lectures from Mom. But now it’s all I can think about. He’s not established enough for me to have any idea of what he’ll be like. There was an interview I watched last night before I went to sleep, but it was with the entire cast—the actors who play his parents, the counselors at the camp—and he spent more time listening than speaking.

  Before I know it, the lights are up and Alice is nudging me.

  “Hey,” she says. Sniffs. “Are you crying?”

  “No.” I wipe at my damp cheeks. “Are you?”

  “No.” She sniffs again. “Of course not.”

  We walk out of the theater in silence. It’s only when we’re outside, staring at the pink and purple of the evening sky, that Alice speaks again.

  “He didn’t really talk a lot.”

  “I guess,” I say, shoving my hands into my pockets. “But he made you feel so connected that it hurt anyway.”

  God, I’m supposed to go to a press conference in an hour. A press conference, with the entire cast and crew up on a dais, while the journalists sit in the audience and ask questions. How can I do that? How can I ask Marius Canet questions in front of everyone else? I don’t know him, but it feels too personal. I almost wish I’d gone to the press conference before the screening. Sure, I would’ve lacked context, but at least I wouldn’t have cared this much. Everything gets harder when I care.

  “It was definitely sad.” Alice shakes her head, fingers tapping on her phone. “I think his parents made it sad, though. They believed they were doing the right thing for him.”

  “Conversion therapy is never the right thing.”

  “Obviously.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m just saying the movie did a good job of just—I don’t know. You think these people are evil, right? But that would make things too easy. Peter—he still loves them, even though they sent him to this place to change him. That’s real life.”

  I guess so. If we were supposed to feel bad for the parents, I failed that part. Why would I? They might’ve thought they were doing the right thing, but they just fucked everything up because they couldn’t accept their kid. It’s scary. What if my parents decided to send me away because I get too anxious? I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. I’d be stuck and messed up afterward, just like Peter.

  A car pulls to the curb. Alice starts walking toward it.

  “Well,” she says, “the acting was really good.”

  I nod and get in the back seat in silence. The driver was playing something slow, quiet, but quickly switches to a fast pop song as we settle in. Alice leans forward and talks to him. I lean back and close my eyes. Now I know all the Oscar buzz wasn’t just an exaggeration. I don’t know how he does it, but Marius Canet can really act. Maybe it’s a fluke, like first-movie luck or something, but I don’t think so.

  God. How do I talk to someone so talented without freaking out?

  “Don’t overthink it,” Alice says, snapping me out of my thoughts. She’s looking down at her phone. “It’s just a movie.”

  But it’s not. At least, it doesn’t feel like just a movie. Not to me. Not anymore. It’s getting harder to breathe. I force short breaths through my nose.

  “It was really good,” I say. Gulp a deep breath. Try to feel like I’ll be okay. “You could tell it was written by a white dude, though. Because Marius’s character…didn’t act Black.”

  “How do you act Black?”

  “You know what I mean,” I say, even though it does sound kind of wrong. “I mean there wasn’t really context. Like, I get that Art Springfield is white and he’s playing the father, so they were trying to imply that Peter is mixed. But there was still stuff that didn’t make sense for Black characters, like his mother calling the police on him for no reason.”

  “Oh.” Alice leans her head back against the seat. “Yeah, you’re right. And the way he yelled at them in the beginning. Imagine yelling at Mom like that?”

  “She’d probably murder me.”

  “Not probably,” Alice says. “We know she’d murder you.”

  I glance over. She’s grinning. It’s the first smile we’ve shared in a while. I’ll take it to the press conference for good luck.

  @JosieTheJournalist: fear of public speaking isn’t silly, it’s totally warranted

  I’ve done most of my journalism from school or our living room, calling people or spending tons of time on Google. I’ve never actually been around so many journalists doing their jobs before.

  You could almost mistake it for a business meeting, except for the fact that no one is wearing a suit or carrying a briefcase. Some of them type frantically on phones or chat with one another. A security guard at the door checks press passes. I force myself to breathe.

  “Come on,” Alice says. “How long are we going to wait out here?”

  I try my best to ignor
e her, but it’s pretty difficult when she’s right next to me.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I’m not supposed to go in until we meet Ms. Jacobson—”

  “Josephine?”

  I blink. In front of me stands a white lady with dark brown hair and round glasses.

  I don’t respond, so Alice nudges me. I let out a little squeak.

  “Yes,” I say. “That’s me. Josephine. Or, well, I go by Josie.”

  “It’s so nice to meet you,” Ms. Jacobson says, sticking out her hand. “You look just like your picture.”

  We were supposed to send in pictures with our initial applications, so I chose my senior picture. I just look like me but in a cap and gown. It isn’t really anything special.

  “Oh,” I say anyway. “Thanks.”

  “I read the pieces you submitted with your application,” Ms. Jacobson continues, reaching into her purse. “And they were absolutely amazing. You’re so talented.”

  My tongue seems to be stuck to the roof of my mouth. Between the compliments, meeting a new person, and having to go to a press conference only a few hours after touching down in California, I think my brain is going haywire or something. I can feel Alice looking at the two of us like we’re gigantic nerds.

  “All right,” Ms. Jacobson says, pulling out a folder. “I know we already emailed about the itinerary and travel plans, but I wanted to make sure you got a physical copy of everything.”

  I take the folder and flip it open. There’s a page labeled “Itinerary,” listing cities and plane times and hotels. I’m supposed to interview Marius Canet tomorrow—gulp—and once in almost every city. There’s another copy of the contract Mom and I signed, with a deadline of December 20 in bold letters at the top, then a guide to asking questions and writing stories. Part of me wants to laugh at it. The other part thinks I could really use some help with the talking part.