Contortionist's Handbook by Craig Clevenger

Author:Craig Clevenger [Clevenger, Craig]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-03-16T21:00:00+00:00

_________

Keara threw her bag and address book onto the couch, home from another casting call. The book split open, straining against a hundred rubber bands, adhesive notes, bits of scratch paper and cocktail napkins. Among the debris was a photo of Keara. A five-by-seven studio head shot, smaller than what she normally took to auditions. I looked more closely, and it wasn't Keara.

"Who's this?" I held the photo, looking into Keara's eyes that weren't Keara's.

"That's my sister," she said, filling up the tea kettle. "That shouldn't even be in there."

"She an actress, too?"

"She gave it up."

Her sister looked almost Keara's age (twenty-three, though "Molly" is twenty-four), shared her eyes, eyebrows and forehead. The shape of their faces was nearly identical. But her sister was blonde, her lips and jaw thinner, more refined. She smiled evenly instead of with Keara's asymmetrical grin. But Keara had nicer teeth. Her sister had a gap in the center and they weren't even. But they were definitely related. And beautiful.

"So that's Andrea?" I asked.

"Yes, that's Andrea."

"Younger than you—"

"Older." She cut me off, her back to me.

"I see the resemblance," I said. "What's her story?"

"She doesn't have a story."

"You said she lived in San Diego. That's her, isn't it?"

"Yes, that's her, Eric. She lives in San Diego. What about it?" She stepped out of the kitchen and snatched the picture from me as I was staring into it.

Andrea called Keara at work, sometimes at home, but I had never spoken to her. My calls were usually work-related. Keara's were work or casting calls, and we had the periodic late-night hang-up. Welcome to Los Angeles.

"So, ask her up sometime," I said.

"Christ. Not you, too."

"What do you mean, not me too?"

"Go visit her yourself, if you want to so badly."

"Jesus, Keara."

Her cup weighed ten ounces of kiln-fired ceramic—Beautiful Lake Tahoe—from the Salvation Army, and it missed my face only because I ducked, tripping over a stack of magazines. It exploded against the far wall, leaving a divot that I had to spackle and repaint. Keara slammed the balcony door behind her in a burst of expletives.

I swept up, took a joint and two beers outside.

"I don't want your sister," I whispered into the forest of her curls. "Nobody but you." I stroked her knuckles, gentle, gentle. She curled up on a lawn chair, put her face between her knees and squeezed my hand.

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