“Spence,” Scarlett said. “That’s amazing! You’re going to be Hamlet!”
“Well, not Hamlet. I’m up for Guildenstern, one of Hamlet’s guys—and also one of what the script calls two clowns, who are actually unfunny gravediggers. Here’s the thing, though. This isn’t just a straight-up Hamlet, it’s kind of like a carnival. It’s the happy Hamlet. Until everyone dies, including the guy I would play. But until we bite it, we basically run around like idiots through the whole show.”
“So it’s perfect for you,” Lola said earnestly.
“Precisely,” Spencer replied. “The list of stuff they wanted is pretty much the entire bottom of my resume…lots of fistfights and falling.”
“Which you do,” Scarlett said happily. “Better than anyone. It’s the perfect part!”
Spencer scratched under his chin thoughtfully for a moment.
“Which is good, right?” Scarlett said.
He scratched some more.
“There’s kind of a catch,” he said.
“Catch?”
“It’s with this group called First National Bang Theater Company, and this show is their Shakespeare in the Parking Garage production. Technically…”
He held up one finger at this.
“…technically, it’s on Broadway. Just, really far down Broadway.”
Lola sighed.
“You mean it’s on the street called Broadway, right?” Scarlett said.
“Right. But no one ever said what that meant, specifically. So I can say the theater is on Broadway, which it is, and no one can call me a liar.”
“Spence,” Lola said. “That’s not Broadway. That’s not what they meant in your deal.”
“Does it pay at least?” Lola asked.
“Subway fare counts, right?”
Lola played with the belt on her robe and said nothing.
“I need this play,” he said. “Agents will come to this. Casting directors will come.”
“You want to do Hamlet in a parking garage instead of going to school?” Lola said. “Spence, you know that scholarship offer is about to expire. Can’t you figure out a way to do both? It’s full tuition. And we need a cook.”
“I know what it is,” Spencer replied, squaring off to Lola. “But in exchange for the money, they farm me out to restaurants for forty hours a week. That’s on top of full-time classes. How am I supposed to act when I’m working eighty hours a week? For two years. Also, even if I did it, I really don’t want to work in this place my whole life.”
He held up his hands as if to say, “You see my problem.”
“I guess,” Lola said, without much conviction. “But it still couldn’t hurt, Spence. I mean, you’d be a trained chef with lots of experience, and you could always fall back on that.”
“Well,” he said, “I realize not all of us date millionaires. They’re pretty good to fall back on, too. All that nice, soft cash.”
He propelled himself off Scarlett’s bed before Lola could reply.
“Anyway. Gots to go. Have to prepare.”
He patted Lola’s head as he bolted out the door. Lola carefully pulled the loose strands of her long blonde hair from her brush and thoughtfully wound them around her finger.
“I know you think I’m being hard on him,” she said quietly. “But I think at some point, you have to get practical.”
“Define practical,” Scarlett said. “Because it sounds like you’re saying he should give up. Spencer is a good actor.”
“I know that,” she said. “I know it’s hard for him. I get it. And I know that’s why he makes fun of Chip because he’s well-off.”
“He’s rich,” Scarlett corrected her.
Lola cocked her head to the side noncommittally. She never said that Chip was rich. The word seemed vulgar to her. It was always well-off or comfortable, but the real word was rich. The pink diamond stud earrings that sparkled demurely when she tucked her hair behind her ears, the stack of stubs of opera and ballet tickets…these were all reminders that while Lola was still a Martin, she spent some of her time in a very different world.
“There’s nothing wrong with what Chip is,” Lola said. “Having money doesn’t make him a bad person. Spencer is hung up on this idea of being a poor actor.”
“I don’t think he wants to be poor. He wants to work.”
“Nobody wants to be poor. But you need to use some sense if you want to avoid ending up that way. Look at us. Look at where we live.”
“You make it sound like we live in a burned-up car under a bridge,” Scarlett said. “We live in a hotel, in the middle of Manhattan.”
“Exactly. This place is worth millions. We should be rich, too. But we’re not. I’m pretty sure we barely own this place anymore. We can live in it, but if we left it, we’d have nothing but debt. This place owns us.”
There was a slight edge creeping into Lola’s usually calm voice that unsettled Scarlett.
“It’s not that bad,” Scarlett said.
“Not that bad? Scarlett, where are your friends this summer, while you’re here?”