I'll Be You(10)

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Elli soldiered through production. She’d always been a better student than me, finishing her homework with plenty of time to do the extra credit and coach me through my math problems; and now she applied the same diligence to studying her part and hitting her marks on set. She dutifully served up her lines, her wooden delivery masked by the charm of her dimples and her ability to smile on cue. She was incapable of playing anyone but herself, but fortunately the scripts she received never demanded much more of her than that.

Was I the only one who noticed that her performances always felt vaguely colored by panic, as if she were terrified that she was going to disappoint? I hoped I was the only one who could see this, even as I studiously looked away.

I was the better actress, the one who knew how to disappear into the persona of Jenny Maxx. I couldn’t wait to get to set every day, where the crew buzzed around us, the hot lights illuminating me from the inside, the aperture of the camera like the world’s eyes fixed on me. I loved how complete acting made me feel, as if I were twice as interesting as I’d been before. I loved the way the grown-up actors treated us like little ingenues, bringing us powdered donuts from craft services and braiding our hair during breaks in production.

To the Maxx was a show for adults. There were never any other kids around. As a result, my sister and I were always together, more than we ever had been before. In Santa Barbara, over our objections, our elementary school had placed us in separate homerooms; but here, we were always within shouting distance. We sat together in the back of the set every day, snickering over the nonsense Mad Libs that we used to fill the time, or folding our scripts into miniature origami boxes that we would present to each other. At night, in the apartment bedroom that we shared, I would reach across the space between our beds and find my sister’s hand there, reaching for mine. We fell asleep like this most nights, our hands linked across the void, a defense against the dark.



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We turned eleven six weeks after To the Maxx premiered on network television, five months after our arrival in town. To celebrate, our mother took us to an anodyne open-air shopping mall where the stores—Gap, Nordstrom, Crate & Barrel, Barnes & Noble—were reassuringly identical to the ones we’d left back in Santa Barbara. We watched a talking-animal movie starring another one of Harriet’s clients and then ate H?agen-Dazs by the synchronized fountains. Teenagers walked by in groups, loaded down with shiny bags from stores that we weren’t yet wealthy enough to shop at, gripping phones that our mother said we were too young to own. Who was there to call anyway? The only person I really cared about was always with me.

While we sat there, waiting for our mother to return from the restroom, a woman walked by and did a double take. She skidded to a stop, turned to stare at us. She was my mother’s age but looked nothing like her, in a gold-and-black tracksuit with Fendi printed across the front. The thick blond stripes in her hair made her look like an exotic cat.

The woman pointed a finger at me. Her fingernail had a rhinestone glued to the tip. “I know who you are. I’ve been watching your show.” This observation felt almost belligerent, like we were criminals she’d identified out of a lineup. “I didn’t realize there were two of you.”

Beside me, I felt Elli shrinking into the bench, trying to make herself invisible; but I fully intended to make the most out of this moment, the first time I’d been recognized. “We’re twins,” I offered brightly, as if this wasn’t already obvious.

The woman’s eyes were doing that familiar dance, jumping from Elli to me and back again, looking for differences and coming up empty-handed. “Which one of you is the one on the show?” she demanded. “Which one’s the actress?”

“We both are,” I said. But even as I said it, I noticed my sister pointing at me. I turned to stare at her, and she shrugged.

The woman was fishing a camera out of the baguette-shaped purse that dangled from one wrist. “Can I take your photo?”

Before either of us could respond, she’d snapped a picture.

A family of tourists—parents in identical muscle tees, a sullen teenage daughter—had been sitting on an adjacent bench, studying a star map while they drank their Ice Blended drinks. Now they turned to gape at us. The teen, thinking she’d sniffed out the presence of celebrity, reached into her backpack and pulled out a camera.

A few shoppers slowed as they walked by, their internal antennas registering a developing spectacle.

Harriet’s words came back to me, suddenly prophetic. I’ll turn your girls into stars. I felt enormous, so completely seen. I instinctively dimpled at the pushy woman’s camera, turned my head at the angle that the director of photography of To the Maxx had informed me was my most flattering. I scooted a little closer to my sister, found her hand, and squeezed it.

She didn’t squeeze back. When I turned to look at her, I realized that she was about to cry. Her liquid eyes met mine, and I suddenly understood with devastating certainty exactly what she was thinking. I don’t want this, Sam. I don’t want strangers thinking they own a piece of me.

I stood up abruptly, blocking Elli from the woman’s camera. “Hey,” I said. “We didn’t say yes.”

The camera drooped in her hand. Her mascara-ringed eyes blinked at me in surprise. “Excuse me?”