Holy crap.

He’s going to hate this.

James is pissed, and I’m trying not to be amused.

James is always calm, controlled, polite, in charge. But now he’s stomping around my room in his stacked heels, waving the newspaper like a fly swatter.

At least the article is complimentary, I point out.

It makes me sound like a total wanker, he says. His British is escaping, so I know he means it. He asks, Who the hell is going to take someone with “delicate features” seriously as an artist?

I don’t remind him of all the bars his looks have gotten him into. I don’t remind him of all the auditions his sly smile has won him. I don’t remind him of all the times he used his cheekbones to get what he wanted.

The suspenders are cool, though, I say and then duck as the paper comes flying toward my head.

The Howard Johnson’s in Times Square has a photographic drink menu. Manhattans and gimlets and things with cherries and oranges and little umbrellas in them.

Becky and I order a load of fried clams to split; James picks at them between sips of his drink. He’s been working his way down the cocktail menu, drink by drink, ever since he turned eighteen and got a fake ID. Not that he needs one. People bend over backwards to give James anything he asks for.

Today’s choice is something called a rusty nail.

Don’t you need to get a tetanus shot for that? Becky asks.

The drink looks watery and strong, and has two cherries bobbing up and down in it like life buoys. I feel guilty because James could go into any nice place he wanted, instead of having drinks in here so we can join him.

Something needs to change, he says. My image or my looks or maybe my next project should be more mainstream, I don’t know.

Is this all about that article? I ask.

I glance around to make sure the waitress is far away and then grab one of the cherry stems and bite into the fruit. It squirts in my mouth and tastes like cherry lighter fluid.

James shrugs. I’m just worried about losing time to make my mark.

Look— I say, although I’m not sure what I’m going to point out. Maybe spending your life afraid of something that may or may not happen, is like dying twice.

Thankfully, Becky cuts me off. You know, she says, I don’t even know what I’m doing after next year. If I get into college, I have no idea how to pay for it. And if I don’t go to school, who will hire me? Not like I have any experience in anything aside from hiding my mom’s boyfriends’ drugs.

James opens his mouth and closes it. Not even he has anything to follow that up with.

When we walk out, I look up at the life-sized posters hanging in the windows of the Gaiety Male Theatre (NY’S NO. 1 SHOWPLACE, apparently) upstairs from the restaurant. Shirtless boys in bow ties and with top hats and canes.