“But what if we gave ourselves a different job?”
Again, Gertie seems to consider this. After a good long time and a few more sips of water she says, “If we were to change every play from a different era to fit modern sensibilities, we’d lose a lot more than we’d gain. We’d lose the preservation of works of art. We’d lose moments in history that, like it or not, did exist. That’s what revivals are all about. That’s why they’re called revivals—not rewritings. If you were to ask the dramaturg about changingthe ending, I’m pretty sure that’s what he’d say. Your uncle would say, I think I’m having a heart attack.”
“I get that.” Sam swipes at her eyes. Her nose is starting to run. Gertie reaches into her bag (now Sam sees the bag—it was there all along!) and pulls out a tissue and offers it to Sam. Sam takes it and dabs at her eyes, blows her nose. “But—”
“But what?” Gertie prompts.
Deep inhale, settle the breath. “It’s just. Modern sensibilities or not, hasnothingchanged in all of these hundreds of years?”
“Sure. Of course. A lot has changed in all of these hundreds of years.”
“Not necessarily. Hero might have different choices for the ending if she were here today, but,fuck, Gertie, the beginning is still exactly the same now as it was then.” Gertie starts to shake her head; Sam watches her think about it some more and then, slowly, she nods. “Right? You know I’m right! People are like, Embrace your sexuality! Be proud of your body!Own it, girl!And then in the next breath, Well, not likethat.Not with that person. Not this way, not that way. God, notthatbody. Not where I can see it!” She has to pause for a deep inhale, a long exhale. “And sometimes it’s really hard to know what to do, or how to do it. How to behave. How tobe.I’m just not really sure how tobeanymore, Gertie.” It’s the longest monologue she’s spoken all day, and when she’s done Gertie turns toward her and opens her arms, and Sam leans over the seat and goes into them, and Gertie gives her the biggest, warmest hug. “I’m not sure how to be, or what to do.”
“Sam,” says Gertie, into Sam’s hair.
“What?” Sam is muffled against Gertie’s shirt, but she likes it here and she doesn’t want to move. Everyone else on the island smells like a combination of body odor, sunscreen, and fried clams by this point in the summer, but not Gertie. Gertie smells like an expensive private spa.
“Do you know what I think you should do really soon?”
“What?”
“Doesn’t have to be today, but soon. I think you should talk to your mother.”
So the next day this is exactly what Sam does. After rehearsal she pulls her mother aside and says, “Mom. What do you say we go out for a drink?”
“A drink? Sam, you’re nineteen.”
Sam tips her head at Amy. “I don’t want to shock you, Mom. But some kids my age havefake IDsthatget them into barseven though they aren’t twenty-one.”
Amy looks flustered and says, “I’mnot risking that, Sam. Can you imagine if you got busted for underage drinking and Timmy lost his second Hero in a week? Don’t you read theBlock Island Times?”
“Um.No.”
“Well, if you did you’d know that underage drinking is no joke here. This island takes its reputation seriously. As it should!”
“Okay,” says Sam. “It’s just that—I think I’m ready to talk about what happened in New York.”
Amy’s eyes grow wide. She thinks for a minute, then snaps her fingers. “You know what? How about a compromise. I’ll pick up a bottle of wine, and we’ll go to the remote part of the beach by the Mohegan Bluffs steps and we’ll each have a glass.”
“Yeah?”
“Oneglass. I have to meet Shelly Salazar to talk about publicity before I go home tonight.”
“One and a half,” says Sam. “Compromise.”
One morning in the middle of May, when the flowers and the tourists and the morally questionable horses and buggies are out in full force in Central Park, Sam comes back from a jog to find that her phone is blowingup. Before she has a chance to see why, Tucker meets her at the door and pulls her into his bedroom.
“Don’t freak out,” he says, handing her a glass of water. (Very thoughtful, she thinks later, when the dust has settled, and what a lot of dust it is. What a long time it takes to settle.) “Whatever you do, promise me you won’t freak out.”
“I can’t promise that. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Here, sit down.” He points to the corner of the room, where there is, yes, another beanbag chair. Sam’s heart pitter-patters. She lowers herself into the beanbag chair as gracefully as is possible to do such a thing, which is to say, not all that gracefully.
“There are some photos online,” he says. He clears his throat. “Um. Nude photos.”
“Of us?” Sam’s stomach drops to the floor. This is literally the thing her mother has been warning her about since she was knee-high to a grasshopper.Don’t ever ever ever trust anyone with private photos of yourself. Don’t even take them!So she hasn’t. She has never taken them.
“Well. Sort of. Except I’m not in them.”
