Before he can introduce Alexa, Amy says, “You’re not going to believe this. You know how the ticket sales were a little... disappointing not so long ago?”
“No,” said Timothy. “Nobody told me that.”
Amy claps her hand over her mouth. When she drops it she says, “That’s right. I was waiting to tell you, in case things turned around. Well, guess what? Things turned around. We’ve got the next eight shows completely sold out. Miriam at the theater said they couldn’t keep up with all the calls they’ve been getting. From all over the country. And not just that. Somebody called from Wales. The country, not the marine mammals.”
Alexa says, “I’m not at all surprised, because of what Sam did.” She squints at Amy. “Are you Sam’s mom? I see the resemblance.”
Timothy says impatiently, “Yes, this is my sister, Amy Trevino, Sam’s mom and intrepid production manager. Amy, this is my assistant, Alexa Thornhill. Alexa—what did Sam do?”
At the same time Amy asks, “You know Sam?”
Alexa, the traitor, answers Amy first. “I mean, I know her in the same way everyone else knows her. She was like so famous. I don’t blame her for disappearing for a while, letting everything blow over. If it was me I probably would have done the same thing. The online world can be vicious.”
“What did Samdo?” Timothy repeats.
“The TikTok. About the play. You haven’t seen it? She posted yesterday. Here. I’ll show you.” Alexa takes out her phone, swipes, swipes, and points it at Timothy and Amy.
It’s Sam! She’s standing outside the Empire Theatre, in front of the poster.
“Hey, everyone,” Sam says. “I know it’s been a long time. I’m not back for good, but I’m back real quick to tell you something important.” She goes on then for maybe a minute, maybe a little longer, talking about the play, about Block Island, about Timothy Fleming, about Gertie Sanger. At the end she says, “We’d love to see theNew York Timestheater critic here. Trust me. It’s worth the trip. You’ll be happy you came.” After that comes a montage of different parts of the island: the beach, Ballard’s, the Adirondack chairs on Spring Street. The zedonk at the exotic animal farm! The whole thing is set to a song that Amy doesn’t know but that Alexa is singing softly along to.
“That’s it?” says Timothy. “That’s the whole thing?”
“That’s the whole thing.” Alexa points to the right of the screen, where there’s a vertical row of symbols. “This heart shows us how many people liked it.”
“One and a half people?” says Timothy.
“One and a halfmillionpeople. Since yesterday.”
“Hold on,” says Timothy. “That many people saw this?”
“Yup,” says Alexa. “But then, see this arrow here? That’s how many people forwarded it to someone else. That’s, let’s see, another one hundred and seven thousand people. And these little dots here? Those are the comments. Twenty-one thousand so far. Timothy, it looks like your little island has gone viral.”
His and Sam’s roadside fight comes back to him. What he had said to her, when he got all over her about not doing something with her platform.
“Hol-ee shit,” Timothy says. “Pardon my French. But I think I might owe someone an apology.”
Sam
Sam’s on the back deck, sunglasses and hat, light long-sleeved button-up top over her bikini, when she hears the slider open. Uncle Timmy.
“I’ve come to ask a favor,” he says. He clears his throat. “But first to offer an apology.” Sam removes her glasses and looks at her uncle. “I saw the video you made.” Sam can feel her expression changing, becoming warier. She holds her breath, and then Uncle Timmy says, “And I think it’s amazing.”
She exhales and grins. “Yeah? You think that was an okay use of my platform?”
“I think it was atremendoususe of your platform. And I’m sorry that I doubted you. I’m sorry I didn’t take your work seriously. You have single-handedly sold out the run.”
“Nice,” she says, nodding, trying to play it cool, though her insides are doing a happy dance. “Apology accepted.” She takes a beat, then says, “What’s the favor?”
“My assistant, Alexa, has recently arrived on the island. I thought maybe you could show her around a bit. She’s from Massachusetts, but this is her first time on Block Island. I think you two actually have a lot in common. Take her to lunch, maybe? She’s staying at the Hotel Manisses. She’s expecting you in an hour. My treat. Put it on my card.” He holds out an American ExpressPlatinum card. “She’ll be on the island for opening night, visit her family for a few days, and come back before the run ends.”
Inwardly, Sam rolls her eyes. It’s just like a grown-up to think that all young people in approximately the same age group have something in common and thereby will automatically get along. When you are three or four years old, this principle might hold. But it’s not that way now. At the same time, she knows she still stands on shaky ground with Timothy. They’ve each apologized to each other now: she for the party, he for dismissing her platform. Deep down, though, maybe on the lower mantle level of their relationship, near the core, a rift is still possible.
“I can pay for lunch,” she says. “But thank you.”
“Thankyou,” says Uncle Timothy.
Timothy says she can take the jeep; he’ll be home until that evening’s rehearsal. He shows Sam a photo of Alexa on his phone so she’ll recognize her. In the photo, one of those candids people sometimes take on a television or movie set, Alexa is holding out a clipboard toward Timothy. She’s petite, with long, wavy brown hair, and she’s wearing a printed, belted dress and platform sandals. She looks nice.
