The screen’s still blank. “What’s playing?” I whisper.
Hall leans in, our shoulders brushing. He hands me a ticket stub, and I tap two knuckles against my grin as I read it.
Of course.
He pops open our vintage bottles of Coke, moon-lights winking out as the screen roars to life. The projectorclick, click, clicks, spots and streaks blipping by in a succession of frames until the title card goes up.His Girl Friday.I have to tip my head all the way back to take it in.
Rosalind Russell as Hildy, eternal icon andmypersonal hero, appears. “I love her style,” I gush in whispers, as though theshadow-profiles of James Dean and Dorothy Dandridge might overhear. “And her voice. I could listen to Rosalind Russell and Cary Grant ping-ping off each other all day. All that fast-talking, and how everything they say has two layers to it.” I fold my hands over my heart.
I heard you the first time, Hildy’s saying.I like it, that’s why I asked you to say it again.
“Love how she eviscerates all these men,” Hall adds. “What she does here with her hand. Everything I know about acting is that hand gesture.” We both mouth Cary Grant’sA home with Mother. In Albany, too.
“How many times have you watched this?” he wants to know.
“Couldn’t tell you. I love screwball comedies. Did you hear that? He ad-libbed that.” I nudge him. “Look at how Walter looks at Bruce when he asks if there were no twins.”
Hall missed it, so he gestures to the other Hall up in the projection room. We rewind seven seconds, both grinning at Cary Grant, master banterer. A fizzy sensation powers up in my bloodstream to hear the soft surrounding laughter, Hall’s arm touching mine on the shared armrest, the planes of his face aglow with my favorite movie. I bite my lip hard. If I let that smile out, there’ll be no putting it away again.
“I wish I could pull off hats like that,” I whisper, then soon grow aware of a slight weight on top of my head. Hall’s given me Hildy’s hat, which I adjust until it’s the perfect angle.
“Watch him dab his eyes like he’s crying.”
“I know. His talent was unrivaled, really. Did you catch that?” I tap the back of my hand against his shoulder. “She said ‘classified ads’ but it’s a play on ‘ass.’ ”
He shakes his head at me, but he knows I’m right.
We take turns muttering the dialogue, and though he doesn’t have it memorized as well as I do, he’s an enthusiastic thespian.
My head lolls along the back of the chair, left to right. “You wanna know something?”
He waits, watching me.
I wave a hand toward the screen. “I miss wearing retro outfits. My polka dots. I hate to admit it, but I loved those swing dresses.”
I wonder how it’s possible for his eyes to shine like that. “Why do you hate to admit it?”
“Because I didn’t want to be Little Bettie. I wanted to be my own Bettie.”
Maybe I’ve gotten into my own head a little bit, about being perceived and judged and disliked by literally all of planet Earth. Maybe he’s right and I’m the one who’s been judging and disliking myself, projecting those insecurities onto the expressions of every passerby. And if anyone actually does dislike me?
I’m starting to wonder why it matters.
I swallow, settling back in my seat. “You know, that one GIF of Cary saying ‘Get out!’ comes from this movie.” Hall’s hand has slipped over to my side of the armrest, finding its way beneath my fingers. “Ohh,lookat how he looks at her.”
My gaze swivels from the screen to his face, and his expression knocks the wind from my chest. In my mind, my feet come out from under me—whoosh!—and I land, hard, in unfamiliar territory. Dazed, I tell him, “Cary Grant was in a movie calledHoliday.”
His head dips, a barely discernible tic. His eyes go dark and time itself seems to deepen. “I know,” he breathes.
My eyes lock on his mouth. “I can’t have him because he’s dead, and nobody else will do.” My eyebrows draw together.
He’s looking at me like...
Likethat.
And then swiftly away. His mouth purses, a serious expression overtaking his features as if he’s just changed his mind about something.
“What?” I whisper.
