The Secret Ingredient (3 page)

I feel a dropping sensation in my stomach, and a tightening in my throat. “What?”

I slowly back up until I reach the elevator wall and sit down. Even though I’m freaking out, I can almost hear
Bell laughing. He’s never bought into the whole New Age thing.

“How did you know that?”

“It’s what I do,” she replies evenly.

I decide to test her.

“Okay, how come I don’t have a mother?”

A look of pity colors her face, as if my test is too easy.

“She gave you up for adoption.”

I stare at her and realize my jaw is slack.

“Um, this is getting a little creepy,” I say. “Can we press the button now?”

She sits down directly across from me. I do my best to remain calm.

“I’ll tell you what,” she says, arranging herself into a cross-legged position. “While we’re here, why don’t you let me read you?”

“Look, I don’t believe—”

She holds up her hands. “Take what you want from it. I usually get thousands of dollars for this, and I’m offering—”

“No, it’s okay, really.”

“No charge.”

Her gaze softens a little, and I think she’s going to smile, but suddenly her expression goes blank. “You have an older brother. There’s fire in him.”

I can feel my heart banging on the wall of my chest. I try to think of Bell, who would still be laughing at this point. Or would he?

“He will soar.”

I put my head in my hands and pretend this isn’t happening. But when I look up and see her pure, honest expression, something tells me to trust her.

“Okay, just do it.”

She studies my palms, writes down my birth date in a little notebook she has, tells me to stick out my tongue (I laugh a little during that part) and look her in the eye for as long as I can. I last several minutes, then lower my gaze to my sneakers. She takes my hand and holds it gently.

“This summer.”

“What?”

“Last summer there were some changes for you?”

I think of Jeremy moving out, and my breasts suddenly appearing.

“Yes.”

“This summer will be different—pivotal.” I try to smile at her to lighten things up, but nothing seems to crack her concentration. She becomes visibly emotional, like she’s holding back tears. “You must be aware of your choices. I know you’re young, but you’re an old soul. Please remember—all your choices are connected.”

A single tear falls from her left eye and makes a tiny splat on the elevator floor. For some reason I think of William Hurt’s fake tear in
Broadcast News
. Bell’s always quoting the old movies we watch together, and he does a pretty good Holly Hunter.

“Yours is a delicate spirit, but it will get stronger, and
fast. I see your roots taking hold. You will have guidance from someone in the past. I also see a young man. And I’m not sure why, but food is important somehow.”

She stares at me for what seems like an hour, then finally pushes the button and goes back into stranger mode. As we wait for the maintenance guy to radio in, she barely looks at me, until the elevator finally starts to move and we reach the casting agent’s floor.

“Do you have a card?” I ask.

She lets out a quick, hearty laugh and says, “If you need me, I will be there.”

“Okay, well, thanks,” I say, but it comes out as more of a question.

CHAPTER 3

The door to the casting agency is metallic silver and says
J. TUCKER CASTING
in dark red letters. I stare at my reflection in the door, wondering if opening it will really be of any significance. Is it true that every decision we make is connected and is a catalyst to a string of reactions in the universe? Like a caterpillar becomes a butterfly in Japan and then a baby cries in Russia, and a dog dies in Spain? I open the door slowly, telling myself to “just chill,” as Jeremy would say.

To my left, there are two skinny girls in miniskirts sitting on plastic chairs and looking nervous and twitchy, eyeing me as possible competition for whatever they’re auditioning for. It must be so belittling, the whole auditioning thing.

When I was fifteen there was a photographer friend of Enrique’s who tried to get me to model, who said with the contrast of my red hair and blue eyes that I had a real shot. But when I got the pictures taken I was so anxious it caused me to sweat under the lights, and the photos came out pretty lame. I remember bringing them home to my dads, who said they were “wonderful,” which was code for “awkward.” I told them that I no longer wanted to be a model, and they accepted it with a hint of relief. I smile at the girls, thinking of that experience and how grateful I am to be beyond it.

There’s a reception desk that is unmanned, which must be for the job that needs to be filled. A woman in a sports coat, jeans, and loafers comes out of an office door behind the desk. She’s one of those beautiful tomboy types who could totally change her look by letting her hair down and taking off the sports coat, which actually works for her. Her glasses have jewels embedded in the sides, and her thin lips settle into a smirk, which seems like their default position.

She looks about thirty, maybe younger, but you can never really tell in Los Angeles, where some people think Botox is a necessity, like getting your teeth cleaned. Speaking of, her teeth are so white I may need to put my sunglasses back on to fight the glare.

She addresses the girls first, holding up her hand, then turns to me and says, “Can I help you?”

“Yes, hi, I’m Olivia. I’m here about the job?”

She lets out a quick laugh, and I realize hundreds of people come in here all the time for “jobs,” so I specify. “Enrique got me in touch with your office. You’re Janice Tucker?”

“Oh! Yes, you’re Enrique’s daughter, right?” I nod.

“Great, why don’t you sit down. I’ll be right with you.”

During the next twenty minutes, the two girls are called in to Janice’s office to read what they call “sides,” which I gather are basically the lines the actors have to read. The walls are so thin I can hear everything. One side is a commercial, and the other is a dramatic monologue in which the girl is about to run away and is saying goodbye to her dog. Her speech is supposed to be truthful and deep because she’s talking to her dog. It’s written so poorly that it’s almost good.

When the last girl leaves, Janice actually says, “I’ll call you,” and then turns to me with a big smile.

Strangely enough, I bet Janice Tucker is her real name. As one of many steps in their plan to be bigger than themselves, everyone in Hollywood uses fake names. Part of the illusion of fame, I guess. Out of character for L.A., J. Tucker Casting has an authenticity to it, and so does Janice’s straightforward demeanor. I bet she could host a dinner party
and
gut the fish beforehand. She seems tough but kind—like you could tell her secrets and know they were safe, but she’d be honest about what she thought of you.

Janice motions me inside her office, where I sit in the same chair as the hundreds of actors and actresses who have come through this door.

“How are you?” she asks.

“Relieved that I won’t be confessing to a dog,” I say.

Janice dabs some antibacterial liquid into her hands and chuckles as she rubs them together.

“I know, it’s a Lifetime movie. They’re horribly written but strangely addictive once you start watching them. Olivia, right?”

“Yes, but you can call me … whatever.”

During the next five minutes, Janice’s phone rings seven times, and we have a choppy conversation about the job. I tell her I have “assisted” Enrique, which is, to say the least, an embellishment. I also tell her that I cook a weekly special at FOOD, which seems irrelevant but feels good to say. Even though I sense that we have a strange connection, the whole process is a bit random and rushed, which is why I’m somewhat surprised when she puts down the phone and says, “Listen, I’m in a bind here. My former assistant took off yesterday for India to go to a … meditation school or something. So, how about tomorrow at ten? Can you start then?”

“Yes.”

It was that easy? I didn’t even ask her how much she’s paying. I’m just so happy I have a job.

“Dress business casual, and bring a photo ID.”

“Great, thanks …”

She senses my hesitation and says, “Call me Janice.”

“Thanks, Janice.”

I realize I’m blushing as I head toward the door. As I press down the handle, again I hear her steady voice.

“Oh, and Red?”

I turn around, and her smirk is slightly more pronounced.

“No sneakers.”

I nod, looking down at my Chuck Taylors.
Whoops
.

The faint smell of the psychic woman is still in the elevator when I get back in. During the swift ride down, I can’t help but think she’s right. Maybe J. Tucker Casting
is
a door to something bigger than I could know. Maybe right now a bird is flying for the first time, a forest is burning down, a storm is wiping out a village. Maybe a seed is being planted in rich soil by an old wrinkled hand, a key is being dropped into a deep lake, and my life will be forever different. I try to feel it. The moment that changes everything.

CHAPTER 4

When I get to the yoga studio, a class is already in session. Lola is at the front desk listening to her iPod and flipping through an
L.A. Weekly
. When she notices me, she shuts the paper dramatically, comes around, and gives me a huge hug.

“You got the job!”

She can tell from my smile. They say that best friends finish each other’s sentences. With Lola, sometimes we don’t even have to speak at all.

“Tops!”—British for “Great!”—“How much does it pay?”

“I forgot to ask. I start tomorrow. What’s business casual?”

When it comes to fashion, Lola’s the expert. I really don’t put too much effort into my clothes. I’ve never understood
why girls in my school are so obsessed with designer jeans and “accessorizing.” I find most of my clothes at Out of the Closet, a secondhand store that benefits AIDS research. I got teased a lot when I was in seventh and eighth grades for my thrifty look, but then of course vintage became cool, so I guess you could say I was ahead of the curve. It sounds weird, but sometimes when I buy used clothing, I imagine who the previous owner was, where she liked to eat and travel. Every day, I’m carrying the history of other girls and women on my back. I like the idea of being a walking patchwork of other people’s lives.

“Don’t worry,” Lola says, “we’ll get you sorted. Let’s get out of here. I’m taking you to the mall.”

As Lola weaves her Mini Cooper through Hollywood to the Beverly Center, I tell her about the psychic woman in the elevator.

“It’s not
like
you to pay any mind to someone like that, Livie!” Lola sounds incredulous.

“I know, but—it felt like she knew me. The first thing she said to me was ‘I know what it’s like not having a mother.’ And this morning I had this feeling that today was going to be different. I thought it was just about the job, but maybe it’s more.”

This makes Lola think.

“That
is
a bit odd. But roots, a past, a boy? That’s all
fairly standard stuff. And food’s important to everyone—although admittedly more to you.”

“I don’t know, there’s a lot going on right now, you know? Jeremy’s floundering, and my dads seem stressed.… I think they’re basically on the verge of losing the restaurant. It would just be nice to think that maybe …”

“Livie, you concentrate too much on others. I know it’s your family and all, but you have to sort yourself out. It’s time. You do the laundry for your whole family! Not to mention cook for them. I know you love that, but the truth is, you give a bit too much. I used to be the same way, but lately I’ve stopped worrying about my totally dysfunctional family and am just trying to work on myself.”

“I know. How’s the art class?”

Lola has a thing for art, and always takes me around to museums, although I never understand it the way she does. Lately she’s been taking art classes, but it might be just another one of her temporary projects. Last month it was volunteering at a homeless shelter, which lasted two whole days.

“The teacher’s a bit weird, but I like working with oil. I’m making a piece for Jin. It’s got some Japanese letters in it.”

“But he’s Korean.”

“Same continent.”

Lola takes the ticket at the parking garage and winds the car too fast up the circular ramp. By the time she parks, I feel queasy. She grabs her purse, flips her hair, and
says in an American accent, “Okay, girl, let’s get you business casual!”

Malls make me nervous, but aside from when she’s driving, being with Lola puts me at ease. She chooses two outfits for me. It feels weird wearing new clothes with the tags still on them, but maybe it
is
time for a change, for me to focus on my own life rather than everyone else’s. And with me making my own money, I’ll be able to afford it. Lola plops down her credit card, and I promise to pay her back with my first paycheck.

As we walk over to Banana Republic, Lola keeps talking about Jin. Then, out of the blue, she asks me if I still haven’t heard from Dish Boy. She means Theo.

Last summer when I first started cooking at FOOD, Theo got hired as a dishwasher. He was saving up for a racing bike, and he taped a picture of it over the sink. One afternoon I was flipping through a magazine and saw a black-and-white picture of a windy road with a leafless tree at the end of it. I taped it next to the picture of his bike, and he smiled at me in a way I had never seen before. His smile said:
I’d like to get to know you
.

I had kissed a few boys, but I never really liked any of them that way. Theo had jet-black hair, and his bottle-green eyes easily upstaged the lightly scattered acne on his face.

One day, after weeks of shy flirting, he asked me out on a date. He was really nervous, and kept staring down at his feet. He told me to meet him at the 99-cent store the next
night. Something came over me, like a wash of light. I felt beautiful, and very alive. I debated what to wear for hours, which I had never really done before. I put on mascara and lip gloss. I dabbed a little vanilla extract behind my ears.