Portia visited me a lot at work since her parents’ liquor store was only a block away. She didn’t like trying to do her homework while people bought beer and asked her mother to repeat herself just because she had trouble with Rs. Even though it took me a while to understand her, too, I’d always loved going to their house. Mrs. Nguyen would scold us in her low staccato while she ladled spoonfuls of spicy pho into our bowls. Portia was embarrassed by all of it, of course. She didn’t understand how amazing it was to be from somewhere other than here.
“There’s Trenton.” She started ticking off date possibilities, lining them up like the nail polish bottles.
“He’s dating Molly.”
“For now,” she conceded. “Sadie’s is still a month away. And then there’s Matt.”
“He’s like three feet tall.”
“Yeah, well, so am I. Not everybody’s a giraffe like you.”
“I prefer the term gazelle.” I slipped the photos into an envelope and stuck on the label. “Or undiscovered supermodel.”
Portia snorted. “Keep dreaming.”
“Who’s your third?”
“Hmm? Oh, Tommy.”
“Which Tommy?”
“Kinakis.” She kind of looked away when she said it.
“Tommy Kinakis? What the hell, Porsche?”
“What? Don’t you think he’s cute?”
He was, sort of. He had nice hair and pretty eyes, but he was dumb as a rock. A giant rock.
“What would you even talk about?”
“Who says we’d be talking?”
I debated before telling her. “He asked me to come see one of his games.”
“Really?” She stopped playing with the nail polish. “Are you going to?”
“Yeah. Rah, rah. You know me. Hi, Mrs. Gustafson.”
Portia disappeared with the nail polish as I gave Mrs. Gustafson her pictures. She told me about every ugly grandkid while I nodded and laughed at her stories about them.
After we’d gone through all of the photos, she laid a hand on my arm. “Now, you’re just about graduated, aren’t you, Hattie?”
“Yep. Next spring.”
“And what are you going to do?”
I knew what the right answer to that question was. My line was supposed to be that I was going to the U, majoring in nursing or something else productive, and delivered with an upbeat smile that ended the conversation. Instead I gave her the real answer.
“I’m moving to New York City.”
She raised her eyebrows. “What are you going to do out there, honey?”
“I’m going to be an actress on Broadway,” I said.
“Well, I guess you will then. Goodness’ sakes.”
I patted her blue-veined hand, rang her up, and told her to watch for me in the newspapers someday. As she left, smiling and shaking her head like I was delusional, a happy shot of adrenaline coursed through me the way it always did whenever I said it out loud. I was going to New York, and for the first time I didn’t care what anyone thought about me. I wanted a life that was bigger than Pine Valley, a life that made everything different.
I wasn’t stupid. I’d probably have to transfer to a CVS in the city and work there for a while. That would be the easiest thing, and then I’d have rent money coming in while I looked for something better. And yeah, maybe I wouldn’t make it as an actress, but I had the rest of my life to figure it out and it wasn’t like anyone had a career anymore the way they used to with one company and a sad little briefcase and a pension. The 2000s were all about recycling, reinventing, and fusion. I could be an actress-photographer–dog walker or a gallery aide-waitress-model. Geez, look at me now. I was a million different things depending on who I talked to or how I felt. All the Mrs. Gustafson’s in the world needed to realize their “What are you going to do?” pop quiz was completely defunct.
Portia bought a pink polish and a People magazine and went back to her parents’ store. She texted me just as I was closing up the counter, telling me to ask Tommy to Sadie Hawkins and I replied, “Y don’t U?” She didn’t answer.
I went home and ate a sandwich before going to my room.
“Homework first!” Mom yelled after me as I went upstairs.
“I know!” I yelled back.
I shut my door and took out my history text book and a notebook and pulled up a website about the Middle Ages in case Mom checked on me, and then clicked on the site I was really going to: Pulse.
Pulse was a forum for New Yorkers I started visiting this summer because it posted tons of casting calls. I checked out every call and googled the play, the theater, and the director now, too, because since rehearsals began a few weeks ago for the Rochester Civic Theater I’d learned that our director, Gerald, loved to gossip about other directors. So I found directors to ask him about. He really just liked being asked questions so he could give a lot of bitchy opinions, but it was fun to listen to him talk about the New York theater scene.
I logged in with my handle, HollyG, and my avatar popped up on the screen, a picture of two of Heather’s dad’s pigs real close up on their snouts. If you weren’t a farmer’s daughter, you had no idea what you were seeing. It just looked like a smashed, tired pink canvas with sharp black cuts through the frame. People on the forum always commented on it. They thought it was great art. One of them even asked for the link to my portfolio when I told him I took the picture. So I guess it was pretty easy to fool New Yorkers, too.