“Michael,” she finally adds after a long, impenetrable silence.
“Well if Michael doesn’t mind, we could walk over together,” I say, still curious about their undefined relationship. Only then does it occur to me that if I were a parent, I’d be suspicious of someone like me, a stranger expressing unsolicited assistance like I am. I try searching Michael’s face to see if he’s uncomfortable, but the office is just so dark, so sheltered by shadow, even with his flashlight providing scanty illumination.
“You sure?” he asks, a husky-voiced sound of uncertainty, as he rubs a tired hand over his eyes. It’s not like he’s worried that I can’t be trusted, that’s not it. Instead, it’s almost as if he assumes Andrea’s an imposition.
“Of course. It’s all dark in here anyway,” I explain. “We’ll just go get some breakfast and then come back.”
“Andie, wait.” Michael digs in the pocket of his blue jeans, producing his wallet. “Let me give you some money.”
“Oh, no, I’ll take care of it,” I rush to say. “Don’t worry.”
“No, really, here.” Michael presses a ten-dollar bill into my hand. For a brief, incendiary moment, our fingers brush together, and without even meaning to, I step backwards, embarrassed by the unsought intimacy passing between us again.
I’m not sure if he even notices, because he turns to Andrea, reaching for her hand, but she pulls away sharply, so that he’s left just standing there. Grasping for her and something about that image makes me feel unspeakably sad.
“Andrea, please be good for Ms. O’Neill, okay?”
She nods, dutifully clutching a small backpack in her hands like a lifeline. It looks to be some kind of Barbie contraption, fluorescent pink vinyl covered with glittery pictures.
“Thank you,” Michael says to me in a fierce near-whisper. “I really appreciate this.” His gratitude for such an easy gesture unnerves me in a way I don’t fully understand, so I just nod, and without even meaning to, smile at him again. I swear, I can’t stop smiling at the man.
“Come on,” I say to Andrea, leading her down the hallway lined with countless awards and framed film posters. When we head out the front door, there’s an explosion of morning sunlight so startling that I feel like someone has lifted the creaky cover off my sarcophagus. Like dust motes and cobwebs are drifting away from me, toward the piercing light.
Maybe this is what Trevor’s been talking about, I think, squinting upward at the clear spring sky. For a fleeting moment, I even wonder if it isn’t all some fabulous omen. If maybe the darkness in my life isn’t about to finally end.
The little girl has about the most amazing red hair I’ve ever seen. It’s not the garish red of a carrot top, yet far more than a simple auburn. It’s like a deep burnished amber color mixed together with ruby jewels. As we walk across the asphalt parking lot, stepping onto the dew-soaked grass of Chaplin Park, sunlight catches bright strands of color in it, sparkling like fairy dust.
The shimmering red color is striking, especially contrasted with her creamy, translucent skin and blue eyes. The importance of skin like that is lost on little people. Not a blemish or a mark. Just purity dusted with golden freckles, like oranges in the snow, across her nose and cheeks. She shoves her hands in her denim overall pockets, tossing me a shy, reserved smile, and I can’t help thinking of a china doll. A fragile little thing that I need to protect; no wonder I ache to reach for her small hand and hold it tight within my own.
We come upon several long wardrobe and makeup trailers parked outside Stage 30, marked Evermore, and she stares intently.
“So you like that show?” I ask, interrupted when a loud buzzer blasts from within. “That means the camera’s rolling, so nobody can go inside.” I gesture at the flashing red warning light beside the door, and she nods, obviously familiar with the production process.
At my leading, we dart down a side alley and wind up right in the Bronx—only in Hollywood, I think with a faint smile. Though really, it’s only at this particular studio, which has the best re-creation of New York City streets outside of the Big Apple. We’re strolling down the deserted avenue when Andrea announces in a quiet voice, “Evermore’s my favorite show.”
“Here, go this way.” I tug lightly on her backpack, and then we’re heading back between more sound stages. “Really? Your favorite, huh?”
“Do you watch it?”
“No, I never have. Should I?”