Dolly All the Time(98)

“Spring break?” asks Rodney.

“Yeah, like a big, great time,” I say.

Dan lets out a breath. “I don’t really know what script you read.”

I’m not sure what’s happening with this conversation right now, but there’s something moving through my nervous system that is dangerously close to proving that Dan’s right about my being completely unhinged. My challenge and best revenge is to stay hinged.

“The same one you did, Dan.” I say his name like it’s a joke.

He rolls his eyes at me and says to Nathan, “Of course this is a comedy, but what I love is the quiet romance that’s growing in the background. When all the laughs and music die down, it ends with the two of them. And that’s the beauty of this script and the thing people are going to connect to.” He lifts his hand and almost places it on his heart, but doesn’t.

“People want superheroes,” Nathan says. “Explosions and disasters. They’ll only go for this kind of film if it’s got huge stars, like every big star. And I don’t think we can pull that off.”

Rodney nods.

Dan lets out a breath and sort of scrunches up his eyes as if he’s not sure he should say what he’s about to say. “That’s all very loud,” he says. “People want love. They want to feel connected and like they’re okay.”

“In real life, maybe,” Nathan says. “But people aren’t paying movie theater prices for that.”

“I think they would pay for this one,” Dan says. The balls on this guy. I mean all the balls in the world. But I agree. This script makes me feel like it’s possible that even I could be connected and okay someday.

“I do too,” I say. I’m surprised by the sound of my voice because it’s calmer than I am currently feeling, and because I’ve agreed with Dan out loud. “It’s a very funny script, but it’s the love story that gives it weight. And if people don’t want the weight, it still feels like a big, raucous comedy that will turn any cast into stars.”

“Again, you might be missing the point,” Dan says to me. “The bigness and the raucousness is ironic, Jane. It’s in-your-face to hide the vulnerability of the characters.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Dan. I forgot this was our American lit seminar and that you’re the guy with the man-bun who smells like weed.”

And just like that, I have lost my cool.

Dan laughs. “Yes, the man-bun was huge at Brown ten years ago.”

“You went to Brown?” asks Rodney.

“No.” Dan laughs that annoying, smug at-you-not-with-you laugh. “Listen, Jane. I’m not going to let you turn Casablanca into The Hangover.”

“Let me?” I say, too loudly.

“See! The Hangover had stars,” says Nathan. “And a tiger. Jane. That’s what this thing needs. A megastar and a tiger.”

Dan leans back in his chair like he’s given up. He’s watching me as I sit stick straight, squeezing my hands together and listening to the roar of blood in my brain. I don’t understand how the opinion of a glorified cameraman keeps derailing my career. Hailey has a beach house. Jack has a gold album. I can feel this moment slipping away. Nathan slaps his knees as if he’s about to say, Thanks for stopping by, and shoo us all out. Rodney is looking at his phone, and Dan’s watching me with that unnerving intensity. We might both be concerned that my head is about to explode.

“I know Jack Quinlan.” I don’t say it as much as I toss the words onto the table in front of us. Like it’s the title of an essay I haven’t written and I’m just floating the idea.

Nathan leans back in his chair. “Oh?”

All eyes are on me, and I can actually feel where the runaway train has clicked back onto its track. The roaring of blood in my head slows. “Yes, since I was a kid.”

“Does he act?” asked Rodney. “He’s plenty commercial.” He laughs at his understatement.

I’m not entirely sure what I’ve started or where I’m going with this. But Nathan’s countenance has changed from No to I’m listening.

“No, but he could write a song for the soundtrack,” I say. Nathan and Rodney are looking at me like I am going to solve this problem, like they respect my leadership here. This is exactly the feeling I was hoping for when I walked in today.

Dan, however, rolls his eyes. “How are you going to pull that off?”

I have an image in my head of me trying to climb a ladder while a little raccoon is after me, gnawing on my shoe. I need to shake my foot to get free and maybe give that raccoon a black eye in the process.

“I talk to him all the time,” I say. “He’ll totally do it.”