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“Yeah,” I replied, but my stomach sank at the thought. Hopefully, I’ll still be headed to Parsons next fall. But who knew?
“And what then? What is it the daughter of two suburban bakers wants to do with her life?”
My gut clenched and all the sarcasm drained from my veins. I hesitated, unsure of whether I wanted to say anything, then figured, why not?
“New York. I want to go to school to be a fashion designer.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I just didn’t peg you as one of those,” he said, stopping at a red light.
I stiffened. “One of those? What does that mean?”
“Nothing. It’s just, I guess I pegged you as someone who would want something concrete and practical, like being a lawyer or a nurse or something. Not another one joining the rat race in pursuit of a dream.”
I chewed on the inside of my cheek. When he said it that way, it felt hopeless, like I had my head in the clouds. I already knew the odds were stacked against me. How many other people dreamed of becoming an iconic designer and failed? The industry was cutthroat, competitive, exclusive. I’d be lucky to even get half a shot. Yet he made my chances sound even more dismal.
“Weren’t you in my shoes once? Hoping and dreaming of being an actor?”
“Yes and no.” His lips flattened into a thin line, but before I could ask him what he meant, he changed the subject. “New York, though? It’s so stuffy.” His nose crinkled, and he looked younger than his nineteen years, like he was still a kid himself, just a normal guy.
I softened enough to laugh a little under my breath. “New York is stuffy, but LA’s not?”
“Of course not.”
“How so?” I asked, a challenge in my voice.
He stopped at a red light and ticked off his fingers. “We have better weather. Better beaches. The chicks have better bodies . . .”
At that, I rolled my eyes.
“And there’s kind of this . . . I don’t know . . . appreciation for the hustle there that doesn’t exist in New York. In LA, everyone who’s trying to be somebody is a part of this club, even if you don’t make it. Whereas in New York, you’re just out. You’re a loser until you earn a name for yourself. Maybe it’s the lack of melanin from the sun.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said, though I wondered if it was true. “But stuffy or not, it is the fashion capital of the world.”
“There is that. Looks like you’re stuck.” He flashed me a winning smile, and my heart jumped.
I jerked my gaze away from him to stare out the windshield at the road. “Do I get to ask you a question now?”
“Why not? All I ever do is answer questions. But the sad truth is people rarely care about the answers. All they want is their version of the truth.”
Out of my periphery I saw him smile. Yet there was something sad in his words, and I imagined how lonely it must feel not to be heard.
Shaking the thought away, I said, “I’ll start small, then. Out of all your films, what’s your least favorite?”
“That’s easy. The Treemont High musicals.”
“Really?”
“You sound surprised.” He glanced over at me.
“It’s just that they were your biggest hits, right? I mean, out of all your movies, wasn’t it that series that really took your fame to another level?”
“Unfortunately,” he said, sounding none too happy about it.
“That sounds ungrateful.”
