Read Online Someday, Someday, Maybe by Lauren Graham - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lauren Graham
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I figured, it’s vintage …”
She trails off and absently runs her fingers over the silky white collar. When she looks up at James, he puts his arm around her and gives her a little squeeze.
I feel terrible now. I wish I had something my mother had left me, besides the baffling legacy of being named after a character in a J. D. Salinger story who does nothing more remarkable than pick at a chicken salad sandwich and a glass of milk and then faint on a bad date with a pretentious college boy. I wish I had something of hers that made more sense, something I could wear or look at and remember her by. But my mother accidentally went the wrong way down a one-way street, and after that, the sight of her books and blue jeans and white cotton shirts was too much for my father, and he gave them all away. How could he have known I’d be standing across from Penelope Schlotzsky fifteen years later, feeling jealous of her mother’s vintage fur jacket?
Penelope is wearing her dead mother’s jacket, and I’m trying to make a political statement about something I only decided I cared about five minutes ago.
“No—I didn’t mean—I wasn’t saying—is your mom—? That’s so sweet. She passed it down to you, after she …?”
Penelope scrunches up her usually unfurrowed brow, but then her eyes light up, and she throws her head back and laughs.
“Oh, you thought she’s—? Oh hell no, my mother’s not dead . She’s alive and well and probably sitting by the pool at her condo complex. She just gave it to me to wear ’cause she thought it had a little Hollywood glamour in it!”
After I give James back his scarf, I duck back into the theater and run downstairs to get my coat and bag. The greenroom has almost emptied out now, but I have to face Stavros, and the results, and I’m dreading it. I’m fairly certain I’ve blown the one real chance I’ve had in over two years to achieve something. There will be another Showcase next year, but my deadline expires way before then and I refuse to break it. I refuse to become one of those people who can’t accept the truth that it just isn’t going to happen for them.
Something cold grabs my heart and my mouth falls open.
Maybe I’ve already become one of them while I wasn’t looking.
Maybe I can’t accept the truth that it just isn’t going to happen for me.
Maybe I already know, but I can’t admit it. How many more days of waiting do I really need before I have to face facts?
Maybe there’s enough evidence already—I don’t need to wait for the results of the Showcase to decide. Maybe I have to accept that time’s up.
This revelation makes my hands start to sweat.
I’ve been in New York for over two and a half years. It took me that long just to get a semilucrative waitressing job and a commercial agent who sends me out sporadically. What acting job could I possibly get in the next few months that would tell me that this is absolutely without a doubt what I’m meant to do?
The theater is nearly empty. It’s my turn to see Stavros. I can’t keep him waiting. I’ll tell him right away that I’m thinking of leaving, to make it easier for him to admit he thinks that’s the right thing to do. Maybe he’ll say he was planning on telling me he didn’t see a future for me, and anyway he’ll be relieved that I figured it out on my own.
Then I’ll call my dad and tell him I’m leaving New York. “You’re doing the right thing, honey,” he’ll say. “Now you can get your teaching certificate.”
I imagine what a relief it will be to have a real job. I’ll have a regular paycheck, and a desk and a phone and a fax machine. I’ll have a computer, which hopefully will come with someone to teach me how to use it, and I’ll have people to go out with sometimes after work for a drink at Bennigan’s, who’ll tell me about their boyfriend or their kid or a project they’re working on in their garage. Maybe my work friends and I will talk about what we
She trails off and absently runs her fingers over the silky white collar. When she looks up at James, he puts his arm around her and gives her a little squeeze.
I feel terrible now. I wish I had something my mother had left me, besides the baffling legacy of being named after a character in a J. D. Salinger story who does nothing more remarkable than pick at a chicken salad sandwich and a glass of milk and then faint on a bad date with a pretentious college boy. I wish I had something of hers that made more sense, something I could wear or look at and remember her by. But my mother accidentally went the wrong way down a one-way street, and after that, the sight of her books and blue jeans and white cotton shirts was too much for my father, and he gave them all away. How could he have known I’d be standing across from Penelope Schlotzsky fifteen years later, feeling jealous of her mother’s vintage fur jacket?
Penelope is wearing her dead mother’s jacket, and I’m trying to make a political statement about something I only decided I cared about five minutes ago.
“No—I didn’t mean—I wasn’t saying—is your mom—? That’s so sweet. She passed it down to you, after she …?”
Penelope scrunches up her usually unfurrowed brow, but then her eyes light up, and she throws her head back and laughs.
“Oh, you thought she’s—? Oh hell no, my mother’s not dead . She’s alive and well and probably sitting by the pool at her condo complex. She just gave it to me to wear ’cause she thought it had a little Hollywood glamour in it!”
After I give James back his scarf, I duck back into the theater and run downstairs to get my coat and bag. The greenroom has almost emptied out now, but I have to face Stavros, and the results, and I’m dreading it. I’m fairly certain I’ve blown the one real chance I’ve had in over two years to achieve something. There will be another Showcase next year, but my deadline expires way before then and I refuse to break it. I refuse to become one of those people who can’t accept the truth that it just isn’t going to happen for them.
Something cold grabs my heart and my mouth falls open.
Maybe I’ve already become one of them while I wasn’t looking.
Maybe I can’t accept the truth that it just isn’t going to happen for me.
Maybe I already know, but I can’t admit it. How many more days of waiting do I really need before I have to face facts?
Maybe there’s enough evidence already—I don’t need to wait for the results of the Showcase to decide. Maybe I have to accept that time’s up.
This revelation makes my hands start to sweat.
I’ve been in New York for over two and a half years. It took me that long just to get a semilucrative waitressing job and a commercial agent who sends me out sporadically. What acting job could I possibly get in the next few months that would tell me that this is absolutely without a doubt what I’m meant to do?
The theater is nearly empty. It’s my turn to see Stavros. I can’t keep him waiting. I’ll tell him right away that I’m thinking of leaving, to make it easier for him to admit he thinks that’s the right thing to do. Maybe he’ll say he was planning on telling me he didn’t see a future for me, and anyway he’ll be relieved that I figured it out on my own.
Then I’ll call my dad and tell him I’m leaving New York. “You’re doing the right thing, honey,” he’ll say. “Now you can get your teaching certificate.”
I imagine what a relief it will be to have a real job. I’ll have a regular paycheck, and a desk and a phone and a fax machine. I’ll have a computer, which hopefully will come with someone to teach me how to use it, and I’ll have people to go out with sometimes after work for a drink at Bennigan’s, who’ll tell me about their boyfriend or their kid or a project they’re working on in their garage. Maybe my work friends and I will talk about what we
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