“I’m aware,” I snapped. “That’s not what I do. I’m just interested in this, Harper. I can’t turn it off like you lot do, immersing yourself in the play and then grabbing beers the moment the clock hits five—”
“Sometimes. Yeah, Nadine. Sometimes we do have a drink. Do you think the greats burn themselves out, or do you think they treat their talent like a precious resource to be considerately spent? It astounds me that you can award the characters you play such complexity but think so little of us—that we can’t be funandserious about all this. It’s not a fucking sacrifice you make to prove you’re deserving of it all. So yes, sometimes we party and do all those other things you think are such a waste of time. But sometimes we go to the library. Or the theater. Or part-time jobs.”
“What? We’re not allowed those.”
Harper laughed, a puff of cigarette smoke accompanying it. “I know. You think that stops the people whoneedto work? Look, I know you have it tough in that regard—I’m not trying to make it a competition. It’s just worth noting some people are burning themselves out working night shifts and weekends just to survive. What a ridiculous place, making it something to be hidden.”
I’m sure at the time I had a dozen excuses, but of course Harper had struck precisely where she meant to. I thoughtmyself some scrappy underdog. And it was true; there were those richer than me, better connected than me, with more family support than me. But not everyone wore their struggles plainly—and there were plenty who did not have inheritance to fund them or who weren’t white or pretty or skinny enough to fall into the narrow bracket of ’90s Hollywood desire.
Harper was right, and that was the last thing I could allow her to be.
So, like a child spitting back an insult, I countered with: “Youdon’t need a job.”
“No, no I don’t. But I talk to people, Nadine. I’m curious about their lives. I don’t just see them as props I act against on a stage.”
I stopped walking, a twig crunching underfoot. This didn’t feel like our occasional petty sniping. This was pointed. “I don’t know when I invited this character assassination or what I’ve done to deserve it.”
“Try a dozen passive-aggressive comments about how none of us deserve to be here like you do.” She tapped the ash out into the air. “Or implying you’ve worked hardest to be here.”
“Why? Do you think you have?”
Harper shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe I have. Probably not, if I’m being honest. But I think that hurts you more.”
I felt trapped, caught off guard. I did not like confrontation, especially not when sudden and unprecedented. And it didn’t help that amongst all this greenery all I could smell washer pear and freesia perfume, sweet and cloying and surrounding me—as inescapable as her words themselves.
“You think if you work hard enough,” Harper continued, “you’ll get it. But there comes a point where working for it doesn’t make up for a lack of talent.”
My jaw clenched so tight I could barely speak, could only hiss out from between my ground teeth: “Excuse me?”
“Oh don’t take it like that,” Harper dismissed, finishing her cigarette and stubbing it on the ground before pocketing the butt. “I’m not saying you’re not talented. I’m saying whatever fear you have of not being talented enough isn’t going to be assuaged with extra office hours.”
“Is yours assuaged by fucking the professors?” I spat.
The fact that Harper did not laugh was testament to how taken aback she was. Her laughter was normally a default response.
She looked me up and down before smiling as she had when we’d explored the character of Lady Macbeth: with vindictive coolness. “That’s quite an accusation.”
“Is it false?”
“I’m not even going to justify it with a response, Nadine. Frankly, if I were—so what? I could fuck every staff member. I could be the best shag of their life. And if you can’t outperform that, if your talent isn’t more than my cunt, then what the fuck are you doing here?”
Harper stepped as though to storm off,exit pursued by abject misery. But then she hesitated, glancing between trees.
I did the same, and when neither of us spoke, it was evident we both feared voicing it aloud. We had not been following a path, but the way through the trees had been so clear we hadn’t exactly realized there wasn’t one, either. Now the trees pressed in close, looming above in silent judgment of the scene playing out below. And an audience not entertained was an audience turned hostile.
“Well, this is macabre,” Harper deadpanned, staring at the forest ahead.
“Oh no, did getting lost in the woods ruin your dramatic exit?”
“It did actually, yes.”
I said nothing, and not merely because I suspected it would irritate Harper more. I felt too shocked, too thrown. I couldn’t say just anything—with Harper it had to be the perfect retort, the sort of line I might think of when I couldn’t sleep. I was certain days after this argument, I would think of something suitable. But for now, I just started walking in a direction I hoped was back toward the lodge.
“I had no idea you hated me so much,” I finally said. But what I meant was:“I had no idea you thought about me so much.”
“I don’t hate you,” Harper said, surprised. “God, me? I don’t care enough to hate you—”
“Well, that’s the issue, isn’t it?” I whirled on her for a moment before realizing this was a waste of my time and continuing ahead, Harper hurriedly following so that I felt emboldened enough to add: “You don’t care about anything enough to hate it. I’ve never met an artist with less passion.”
