Borderline (The Arcadia Project, #1)(6)
“No, I was not.”
“It’s all right, I get it. I was a film student. I’ve faked my way into plenty of parties and offices where I didn’t belong. What I’d like to know is how you disappeared out of my room the second I turned my back—while I was standing in the doorway.”
Caryl met my eyes evenly. Hers were—hazel? No, gray. Or were they reflecting the sky?
“Magic,” she said.
I actually entertained the idea for a minute before concluding that this was her flaccid attempt at sarcasm. But that’s a weird side effect of BPD; your perception of truth shifts so often in the normal course of daily life that crazy talk doesn’t automatically trigger your bullshit reflex.
“Seriously,” I said. “How did you do it?”
“The details of the technique are proprietary.”
“Look,” I said. “I know my employment options are basically this or McDonald’s. But I’m going to need more to go on than some vague references to free housing and industry connections. What is the Arcadia Project? According to Google, it’s either an anthology of postmodern pastoral poetry, a platform for the publication of illustrated environmental histories, or a phenomenology of attentional economics.”
“A what?”
“I have no idea; I don’t speak grad-student. But when I mentioned your name to Dr. Davis, she advised Extreme Caution.”
One of Caryl’s brows lifted about a quarter inch. “I had no idea I’d left such an impression,” she said.
“Why the secrecy? Aren’t we here to talk details? What exactly is it you’d be hiring me to do?”
Caryl leaned back, resting her elbows on the back of her bench. Not dirt-phobic then, or at least not concerned about her jacket.
“To begin with, there would be a trial period; you would stay as our guest and assist in some minor errands for the Project.”
“What sort of errands?”
“They will vary from day to day. Deliveries, filing, finding things. If it works out, I can offer you a key set production assistant position that DreamWorks has earmarked for one of ours in September.”
“Key set PA.” My negotiation skills were rusty, but I tried to apply some grease. “You know I was in the running for Best New Director at the Seattle Film Festival, right? The Stone Guest? That was mine.”
Caryl gave me a mild look, so long I felt my ears go hot. Even before she spoke, a dagger of shame centered itself above my gut, and her next words drove it home.
“The Arcadia Project is here to reopen a door that you closed,” she said. “But we only open it. You will have to be the one to shoulder your way through it past the crowd of people in your way.”
“I know how Hollywood works,” I said, shifting my weight. “But let’s not ignore the fact that you said ‘creative positions’ before I packed up everything I own and came out here. I worry what else you’re going to shame me into accepting further down the road.”
“If you are looking for guarantees,” Caryl said in a bored tone, “you are in the wrong business and quite possibly in the wrong city.” She turned her head to study a smudge on the heel of her glove. “I saw The Stone Guest,” she added, seemingly as an afterthought.
A flush of a different kind stole over my face. “What did you think?”
“I trespassed on private property to recruit you.”
My tongue felt thick, and I looked away, studying the abstract statue at the edge of the park. When I looked back at Caryl, I couldn’t remember what we’d been saying. The human brain holds a grudge about being bounced around in the skull, even after thirteen months.
“So what’s next?” I bluffed, lobbing the ball into her court.
She caught it smoothly. “If you are not averse to riding in my car, I will take you to the place where you would be staying, so you can see for yourself if it would be agreeable to you.”
I considered. Though unsettling, Caryl didn’t seem dangerous, and on a good day when I’m not “splitting” people into angels and demons, I’m actually a pretty excellent judge of character.
“All right,” I said. “But I may need your help getting my stuff into your car.”
For someone who apparently made her living placing the mentally ill into part-time jobs, Caryl had a really nice SUV. The smell of sun-warmed leather made me drunk and drowsy. As Caryl drove, I found myself picturing a close tracking shot: Caryl’s gloved hand moving from the steering wheel to settle on my left knee. Since it was fantasy, I still had a left knee.
I forced myself to sit up straight and look out the passenger--side window. Dr. Davis and I had talked about my history of using sex as a painkiller. Combine that with the lack of attractive staff at the Leishman Center, and apparently now I would project sexuality onto a stack of cinder blocks.
It was eerily silent in the car: no radio, no chatter, no GPS. The farther east we drove on the 10, the more uneasy I became. “Where are we going exactly?”
“The North University Park district, near USC.”
An instinctive sense of rivalry flared up before I remembered I no longer gave a damn about UCLA. They’d washed their hands of me the moment I’d bloodied up the pavement under Hedrick Hall, and I guess I’d washed my hands of them a few miserable weeks before that.