She only shrugs, and it’s clear that I won’t get any further with her on the topic. I make a mental note to check with Trevor for the pertinent details. I know a little, like that the male lead is pretty hot. My good friend Cat Marin read for the show, but they wound up casting someone else—someone I don’t particularly like, as a matter of fact—and since we’re not in series development, I’ve always ignored it.
“Michael never gets me on the good shows,” she says as we walk toward the commissary. “He forgets stuff too much, so he can never get the passes. My daddy was better about stuff like that.”
I’m wondering again about the nature of their relationship when she blurts, “Evermore is critically acclaimed.” You can tell this child has been raised in the bosom of Hollywood.
I keep a straight face, although it’s tough. “Really?”
She nods. “It’s a ‘revelation’, that’s what the ads say.”
Andrea’s got me curious now, and I need to know the facts. After all, it’s my job to keep my finger on the pulse of America. You never know where you’ll find great stories—sometimes they’re right where you’re not looking. Maybe a lot of things are.
Once we’re settled at the cafeteria table, I learn that her full name is Andrea Lauren Richardson. Michael is her stepfather, she says, but then reveals nothing else. So I guess Trevor was at least partially right—he’s clearly off the market. She doesn’t mention her mother; I want to ask about that, but something stops me, something in the vague way she answers my question about Michael. “I live with him,” is all she says, gazing down at her doughnut.
“You going to eat?” I ask after watching her poke at the Krispy Kreme’s icing for a while.
“Are you?” She points to my own untouched bagel and I feel like my old semi-anorexic tendencies have just been shoved under a microscope.
“Probably.”
“Yeah, probably me, too.”
After a moment I ask, “So how old are you, anyway?”
“Eight.”
“Third grade?” I probe, determined to learn more, and she nods in agreement.
I flash momentarily on my own experiences at that age: Girl Scouts, dance classes, and horseback riding. I spent that summer on my parents’ farm with nary a concern in my mind. “Second grade’s really cool, isn’t it?”
She shrugs, frowning slightly. “I guess so.”
We fall silent, Andrea’s eyes constantly searching the busy commissary. This is the place to come if you want to see weird aliens, vampires, or even plain old character actors here for a meal. It’s also a good spot to land spoilers for upcoming television shows if you eavesdrop successfully on the right producers’ conversations, but Andrea seems oblivious to all of that. Her auburn eyebrows arch upward, and she cranes her neck, scanning the whole of the room repeatedly.
“Looking for anybody in particular?” I finally ask, but she doesn’t answer. She only stares down at the table again, picking at the doughnut some more. “Nobody at all?”
For a moment she opens her mouth to answer, but then snaps it shut again. Instead, a melancholy expression darkens her face as she stares out the tall windows into the spring sunlight. Something’s going on inside her mind. I just can’t tell what it is.
When she looks back at me, she whispers under her breath, “I have one, too.”
I think hard, certain I should understand this cryptic statement, but since I don’t, I lean close and ask what she means.
“A scar. Only you can’t see mine.” She gazes up into my eyes with an intense expression, and for a moment I fear she might cry. Then just as quickly she stares back down at her doughnut, silent.
Her remark makes me feel self-conscious, but it’s not the usual deep shame that such comments elicit. Maybe that’s why I brush back my hair so she can really see the marks along my face and jaw line. She responds to the invitation, peering upward for a closer look, then asks in a small voice, “Do they still hurt?”
“Sometimes. Especially the ones you can’t see.”
Her clear blue eyes widen in surprise. “How many do you have?”
“A few.” I leave out the brutal details about my chest and abdomen because she doesn’t need the violent truth about my past. “You?”
“Only one. On my leg.” I know she must be burning with as many questions as I am. Dozens instantly speed through my head—like why there’s such a sorrowful expression in her eyes. Or what happened to her that left this hidden scar.
We fall silent then, the revelations apparently finished for the moment. I spread cream cheese on my bagel; she gives me a tentative grin and says, “So you are eating, huh?”
“Yeah, think I am.” Gesturing with my knife I ask, “What about you?”
She reaches for her doughnut and licks some of the warmed chocolate off the top. “Yeah, me, too.”
Subtext, I think with a smile. That’s what my little red-haired friend and I are speaking. Volumes upon volumes of it, without any need for translation at all.
If only grownups felt so safe—and so easy to understand.
Chapter Two: Michael