Parallel Read online

  DEDICATION

  For Lil Mil

  EPIGRAPH

  Life can only be understood backwards;

  but it must be lived forwards.

  —SØREN KIERKEGAARD

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  September

  1 - Here

  2 - There

  3 - Here

  4 - There

  5 - Here

  October

  6 - There

  7 - Here

  8 - There

  9 - Here

  November

  10 - Here

  11 - There

  12 - Here

  13 - There

  14 - Here

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Ad

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  SEPTEMBER

  1

  HERE

  TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 2009

  (the day before my eighteenth birthday)

  I hesitate, then point my gun at him and pull the trigger. There is a moment of sweet, precious silence. Then:

  “Cut!”

  I sigh, lowering the gun. Everyone springs into action. Again.

  I close my eyes, silently reminding myself that I’m loving every minute of this. Then apologize to myself for the lie.

  “Abby?”

  Our director, Alain Bourneau, a man with the ego of Narcissus and the temper of Zeus, is standing so close I can feel his minty breath on my face. I force a smile and open my eyes. His reconstructed nose is millimeters from mine.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I say, bobbing my head enthusiastically. “Everything’s great. Just going over the scene in my mind.” I tap my left temple for emphasis. “The mental picture helps me focus.” The only mental picture I have in my head right now is the bacon cheeseburger I plan to order from room service tonight (extra pickles, mustard, no ketchup). But if Alain thinks I’m giving him less than 100 percent, he’ll send me to craft services for a “Power Pick-Me-Up,” a brownish-green concoction that tastes like chalk and makes my pee smell like cayenne pepper.

  Alain gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Atta girl. Now, let’s do it exactly the same way again. Only hotter.”

  Right. Of course. We’re talking about a scene that involves my shooting an overweight man in the head while he stands in his kitchen making a bologna sandwich. I can see how that could be hotter.

  My life has officially become unrecognizable.

  When I was in kindergarten, my mom decided that I was a child prodigy. The fact that she couldn’t readily identify my prodigious talent did nothing to diminish her certainty that I had one. Four months and twenty-two developmental assessment tests later, she was no closer to pinpointing my supposed genius, but she’d learned something about her daughter that made her exceedingly proud: It appeared that I, Abigail Hannah Barnes, possessed a “strong sense of self.”

  I have no idea how a five-year-old can demonstrate the strength of her self-concept with a number two pencil and a Scantron sheet, but I apparently did, twenty-two times over.

  Until a year ago, I would’ve agreed with that assessment. I did know who I was. What I liked (writing and running), what I was good at (English and history), what I wanted to become (a journalist). So I stuck to the things that came easily to me and steered clear of everything else (in particular, anything that might require hand-eye coordination or the use of a scalpel). This proved a very effective strategy for success. By the time senior year rolled around, I was the editor in chief of my high school newspaper, the captain of the cross-country team, and on pace to graduate in the top 5 percent of my class. My plan—part of the Plan, the one that has informed every scholastic decision I’ve made since seventh grade, the year I decided I wanted to be a journalist—was to apply early admission to the journalism school at Northwestern, then coast through spring semester.

  The centerpiece of this strategy was my fall course load: a perfectly crafted combination of AP classes and total fluff electives with legit-sounding names. Everything was proceeding according to plan until:

  “Abby, Ms. DeWitt wants to see you. There’s some sort of issue with your schedule.”

  The first day of senior year. I was sitting in homeroom, debating birthday dinner options while I waited for the parking lottery to start.

  “An issue?”

  “That’s all I know.” Mrs. Gorin, my homeroom teacher, was waving a little slip of pink paper. “Could you just take care of it, please?”

  “What about the parking—”

  “You can meet us in the auditorium.” She gave the pink slip an impatient shake. I grabbed my bag and headed for the door, praying that this “issue” wouldn’t take longer than five minutes. If I wasn’t in the auditorium when they drew my name, they’d give my parking space to someone else, and I’d spend senior year in the no-man’s-land of the annex lot.

  Four and a half minutes later, I was sitting in the guidance counselor’s office, staring at a very short list of electives. Apparently, Mr. Simmons, the man who created and taught the excessively easy History of Music, had suddenly decided to cancel his class, forcing me to pick another elective for fifth period. I know this might not sound like a big deal, but if you’d spent as much time as I had constructing the Perfect Schedule, and if you’d convinced yourself that your future success absolutely depended on your taking six very particular courses, then the disruption would feel catastrophic.

  “The great news is, you have two wonderful courses to choose from,” Ms. DeWitt chirped. “Drama Methods and Principles of Astronomy.” She smiled, looking at me over the rim of her turquoise glasses. The air suddenly felt very thin.

  “No!” She got this startled look on her face when I said it. I hadn’t meant to shout, but the woman had just yanked the rug out from under me. Plus, her fuchsia pantsuit was giving me a headache. I cleared my throat and tried again. “There has to be another option.”

  “I’m afraid not,” she replied pleasantly. Then, in a girlish whisper, as if we were talking about something far less important than my entire academic future: “I’d go with drama if I were you.”

  I should mention something about my high school: It’s what they call an arts and sciences magnet, which means that in addition to its regular public school curriculum, Brookside High offers two specialized tracks: one for aspiring actors and performers and the other for overachieving young Einsteins lured by the promise of college-level coursework. I made the mistake sophomore year of assuming that “college-level” meant suitable for the average college freshman, only to learn eight weeks into the harmless-sounding Botany Basics that our final exam would be the same one our teacher had given the previous year. To grad students at Georgia Tech.

  So, while courses with names like “Drama Methods” and “Principles of Astronomy” would’ve undoubtedly been cake classes at a regular school, when you go to an arts and sciences magnet and happen to be neither arts nor sciences inclined, these innocuously titled gems are grueling, time-intensive GPA busters. Oh, and did I mention the mandatory grading curve?

  It was a choice between bad and worse.

  “Drama,” I said finally. And that was that.

  In fifth period that afternoon, our teacher informed us that she’d selected Tom Stoppard’s Arcadia as our class production. I’d read the play the year before in AP English and loved it (mostly because my essay, “People Fancying People: Determinism in Arcadia,” won the eleventh grade writing prize), so when it came time for auditions, I tried out for the role of Thomasina Coverly, the precocious teenage lead. Not because I actually wanted the lead (or any other part, for that matter—I was lobbying to be sta
ge manager, safely behind the scenes), but because Thomasina’s lines were the easiest to memorize, and since the same girl had won the starring role in every school play since kindergarten, I figured at worst I’d wind up as her understudy. Plus, trying out for the lead role had the side benefit of irritating that girl, the self-appointed queen bee of the drama crowd and my nemesis since kindergarten, the insufferable Ilana Cassidy, who assumed she’d audition unopposed.

  But two days later, there it was: my name at the top of the cast list. I’d gotten the part.

  This coup caused quite the uproar among the drama kids, all of whom expected Ilana to get the lead. My cast mates were convinced that I, the inexperienced interloper, would ruin “their” show, and I suspected they were right. But Ms. Ziffren’s casting decisions weren’t up for discussion, and my grade depended on my participation.

  The show opened to a packed auditorium. Seated in the front row was a prominent casting director who’d flown in to see her nephew play Septimus Hodge. This kind of thing happens all the time in magnet school land, so it was easy to ignore (especially since the entirety of my mental energy that night was focused on the very real possibility that I would forget my lines and single-handedly wreck the show).

  But then I got a call from that same casting director, inviting me to audition for Everyday Assassins, a big-budget action movie that was set to start shooting in Los Angeles in May. According to the casting director, they were looking for a dark-haired, light-eyed teenage newcomer to play the lead actor’s silent accomplice, and with my chestnut waves and gray-blue eyes, I was a perfect match. Would I be interested in flying out to Los Angeles to audition for the role? Figuring the experience would be great material for my Northwestern application, I convinced my parents to let me try out.

  The whole thing happened so fast. Alain offered me the role on the spot. He and the producers knew about my college plans and assured me that production would wrap by late July, leaving me plenty of time to get to Northwestern before classes started in September. Stunned and more than a little flattered, I took the part.

  Life just kind of sped up from there. By February, I was flying from Atlanta to L.A. for fittings, table reads (super exciting when you have no lines), and weapons training. I missed spring break. I missed prom. Production was scheduled to start the third week of May, so while the rest of my class was enjoying all the end-of-high-school festivities, I was holed up in a hotel room, poring over revised drafts of the increasingly convoluted script (there was a new one every day), intensely aware of the fact that I had NO CLUE what I was doing. One semester of Drama Methods does not an actor make.

  At this point, I still thought the film would wrap before fall semester, so I focused on making the best of it. So what if I didn’t get to walk with my class at graduation? I was sharing Vitaminwater with Cosmo’s Sexiest Guy Alive. There are worse ways to spend a summer. The thought never crossed my mind that I’d have to postpone college, or do anything other than what I’d always planned to do. But then production got pushed to June . . . then July . . . then August . . . at which point we were politely informed by our producers that we’d be filming through October. Thanks to a very well-drafted talent contract, I was stuck there for the duration. And just like that, my meticulously constructed Plan—(a) four years writing for an award-winning college daily, (b) a fabulous summer internship, (c) a degree from the best journalism program in the country and, ultimately, (d) a job at a major national newspaper, all before my twenty-second birthday—died a very quick death.

  It’s hard not to blame Mr. Simmons. If he hadn’t canceled History of Music last September, everything would’ve gone the way it was supposed to, and yesterday would’ve been my first day of classes at Northwestern. Instead I’m here, trapped on a studio back lot in Hollywood, wearing a jumpsuit so tight my butt has gone numb.

  Yes, I know it’s the kind of thing people dream about, the kind of thing Ilana Cassidy would’ve given both nipples for: the chance to be in a big-budget movie with an A-list actor and an award-winning director, and to have it all just fall into place without even trying. Stuff like this never happens to me. I’ve had to work for the things I’ve accomplished—every grade, every award, every victory on the track. Which was part of the problem, I guess. When this came so easily, I couldn’t pass it up.

  But I never wanted an acting career or anything close to one, so this dream I’m living isn’t my dream. Which is why, in these moments—when I’m tired and hot and hungry, and we’re on the thirty-ninth take of a scene that, if it makes it into the movie at all, will amount to a whopping six seconds of screen time—it’s harder to ignore that little voice in my head reminding me that “once in a lifetime” isn’t always enough.

  When we finally wrap for the day, I head back to my room. The producers put everyone up at the Culver, this completely cool, old Hollywood hotel that was once owned by John Wayne. Everyone from Greta Garbo to Ronald Reagan has stayed here. Somehow, the fact that the studio is paying for me to live here feels like a bigger deal than the fact that they’re putting me in their movie.

  The sun is low in the sky as I cross the street to the hotel. The smog in L.A. makes for some pretty funky sky colors, but this evening’s palette is especially unskylike. The horizon is streaked with fiery reds and oranges, swirled with shimmering shades of bronze and gold. But that’s not the unusual part. Amid the unusually bright colors, there are darker patches—places where the colors are so deep that they nearly disappear into black. It’s almost as if night has already fallen in these spots, while it’s still daylight everywhere else. Despite the balmy weather, I shiver.

  As I’m walking through the Culver’s black-and-white-tiled lobby, my cell phone rings. Every night at eight, like clockwork.

  “Hi, Mom.” I pass the elevators and enter the stairwell, picking up the pace as I hit the stairs. The three flights from the lobby to my floor constitute the entirety of my cardiovascular exercise, so I try to make it count. I used to run six miles a day (always outside, even in December); now I’m lucky if I walk six blocks. Alain doesn’t want his female assassins to get too thin, so our trainers have been told to lay off the cardio. Not running has been brutal for me.

  “Hey, honey! How’s it going? Having fun?”

  “Yep!” I enthuse, trying to sound upbeat. The only thing worse than admitting to yourself that you made a colossal mistake is admitting to your parents that you did. Especially when the thing you’re regretting doing is something they were lukewarm about from the beginning. It wasn’t the acting thing that made mine wary, but the fact that the movie I’d been cast in lacked a coherent plot.

  “Learning a lot?” Mom asks. Her standard question.

  “Oh, yeah. Definitely.” Today’s lesson: how to pick a Lycra wedgie with the corner of a kitchen stool. “How are things with you guys?”

  “Well, we miss you, of course,” Mom replies. “But otherwise, things are fine. Your dad starts trial on Monday, so he’s been working like crazy.” In my seventeen-almost-eighteen years of life, only five of my dad’s cases have ever made it to trial, which is sad, because being in the courtroom is pretty much the only thing he likes about the practice of law. Dad was a painter when he met my mom. In fact, art was what brought them together. They were standing side by side in front of Dali’s The Persistence of Memory at a surrealist exhibition at MoMA, when he looked over at my mom and said (in what my mom insists was a non-cheesy fashion), “The trouble with Dali is that it’s hard to look at his work without thinking that you could live a whole life and not feel anything as deeply as he felt everything.” They were married less than a year later, the day after my mom graduated from Barnard. After struggling as a painter for a few more years, my dad finally gave in and applied to law school, mostly because my grandparents said they’d pay for it. The plan was to practice for a couple of years to save some money. Twenty years later, he’s the head of the litigation department at a big Atlanta law firm, working sixty-plus hours a week.
And most of the time, he’s bored senseless.

  “How are things at the museum?” I ask. “Did the Picasso exhibit open?” My mom is the head curator at the High Museum, a job she absolutely adores. Last fall, a Seurat exhibit she put together made a big splash in the art world, and other, bigger museums started courting her, but Mom told them she had no interest in leaving the collection she’d spent the last ten years trying to build. Instead, she used her new reputation to bring a string of really stellar exhibits to Atlanta.

  “Not until tomorrow,” she replies. I can hear her smile. “Speaking of things happening tomorrow . . .”

  “I meant to tell you,” I say quickly, knowing where this is going. “Some of my cast mates are taking me out to dinner tomorrow night. Some trendy place in Hollywood.” Not true, but I know how much my mom hates the idea of my being alone on my eighteenth birthday with no one to celebrate with. I also know she can’t afford to be away from the museum right now.

  “That’s great, honey.” She sounds relieved. “I wish your dad and I were going to be there, too. Eighteen! Good grief, I feel old.”

  The line beeps as I’m unlocking my door. “Hey, Mom, that’s Caitlin. We’ve been playing phone tag all week, so I should probably . . .”

  “Oh, of course, honey. Say hi to her for me.”

  We hang up, and I switch over to my best friend.

  “Thank God. I thought I was going to have to leave hate voicemail to get you to call me back.”

  “Sorry. I’ve been on set all day. What’s up? Everything okay?”

  “Better than okay,” Caitlin replies. “The geek in me can barely contain herself.” My best friend is, for sure, a raging geek—at least when it comes to science. Her inner nerd just happens to live in a supermodel’s body. She gets her looks from her mom, an ex-model turned handbag designer. Her brain, on the other hand, she gets from her dad, a structural engineer and quite possibly the dorkiest man I’ve ever met. Although she didn’t inherit his affinity for Velcro sandals, Caitlin did get her father’s left-brained love of the excessively detailed and mind-numbingly complicated. In high school, she spent her weekends working in an astrophysics lab at Georgia Tech (the chair of the department is an old friend of her dad’s), helping grad students with their research and doing some of her own. Our classmates at Brookside weren’t sure what to make of her. I’m guessing she blends in a little better with the Ivy League crowd. Not that Caitlin cares about blending in. She never has. At Brookside, she and I sort of floated on the periphery of the popular group. The social hierarchy was a little warped because of the magnet school thing—athletes generally dominated the scene, but if you were a science track or drama kid with above-average looks and decent social skills, you had mainstream cachet. So the “cool” crowd was a fairly eclectic mix of kids from each track. Caitlin and I were part of that crowd, but since we hung out with the golf team instead of football players and sometimes skipped parties to do homework, we weren’t social royalty.