Dar

The Giver stands off to the side. He looks at me, admiring his work as I shake Irving Thompson's hand. I look nothing like I had on the beach. My dark hair is up in a sleek bun, my make-up is light and airy, and I am wearing a beautiful Prada dress I had seen on Scarlett Johansson on my television. Artemis is invisible to everyone but me again. I try not glance over at him as Irving ushers me into a chair and sits across from me. I search for Jude Armstrong but he is nowhere to be seen.

Irving Thompson has gray hair and an impeccably well groomed goatee. My palms are sweaty and I wipe them on my dress. His eyes are scrutinizing me and he doesn't say anything. The secretary let me in his office and he merely stays silent as he watches me. I want to say something, but I can't.

The office is kind of cold and too modern for my taste. It could really use a Disney Princess something. Artemis snorts in the corner. "Don't be shy, Hutch. Tell him about yourself." I want to glare at him, but don't. Finally, Irving says something. He has a twinkle in his eye. Not the kind of twinkle that Santa Claus has, but a crazy twinkle. Like a mad scientist.

"You look exactly like how I picture Rosette Cunningham," he says in a surprisingly high voice. Rosette is of the course the character he is interested in casting me in. I offer him a soft and embarrassed smile. He continues, "When Louis showed me your headshot, it was like a memory, or a dream. I knew that I had to cast you. I even watched that commercial you did for that awful phone chat company over and over again."

I cringe and my face turns a dire shade of crimson. "I told Jude to come fifteen minutes later because I wanted to talk with you first," Irving goes on, "I hope that's alright." I nod my head and Irving grins at my mortified face.

"For crying out loud, Hattie Hutchinson! Say something. Say anything!" Artemis says. I clear my throat and murmur, "It's very nice to meet you, Mr. Thompson."

"Call me Irving," he says kindly. The comfortable silence is interrupted by a soft rapping on the door. I feel my chest drop dramatically as I watch Jude Armstrong walk into the room. He has a sheepish smile on his face, like he's sorry for interrupting and I immediately want to marry him and make babies that will bear the same smile.

Jude Armstrong resembles a young Robert Redford. He is tall and lean with golden blond hair and sun tanned skin. His blue eyes pierce mine and he says, "Hattie Hutchinson! So nice to meet you!" he says and offers me a warm hand to shake. I give him my most confident smile as I steadily shake his hand. Internally, I am freaking out beyond belief, but I am determined not to let this show.

Artemis is now pantomiming fainting behind Irving Thompson. I have a hard time not hurling curse words at him or laughing. Jude sits right next to me and scoots his leather chair up so that our elbows touch. "Sorry," he says with that same abashed look on his face. I want to melt onto the floor because of his adorableness.

"It's so great seeing you two together finally. My Rosette and my James." Jude and I glance at each other with looks that say, "Can you believe he likes us?" My palms are not sweaty anymore and Irving gets his secretary to send out for some hot coffee and expensive salads. Artemis is bored now and has conjured up a word puzzle to work on. I glance at the wholly jaded expression on his face as he sits at the corner of the room, working on the little thing.

Jude and I run the lines Irving has given us. The movie is called February. My character is Rosette Vyling. She is a girl who has grown up all her life in the suburbs of Connecticut, while James is the newcomer to the small town she lives in. They fall in love and get married, only to find out that they were never the right person for each other and are miserable. But they stay together because they don't want to admit they failed. It is a heavy and beautiful story. Irving tells us that he has been working on this script for years.

There is an understanding between Jude and I. We know the enormity of this role, the enormity it could have on our careers. We chew our salads slowly while Irving talks to us. We ask questions about what he wants. I want to cry because this is everything I have ever wanted. Night approaches when Irving stands up and tells us that he has to leave. He reaches into his desk and pulls out two thick bound scripts. Jude and I take them like they are gold.

"We will meet again soon. It has been pleasant meeting both of you," he states. I look over to find The Giver standing up and whizzing to the door in a split second. "That was so boring," he says under his breath and vanishes right through the wall. Jude stands up and hurries to the door to open it for me.

"Thank you," I say quietly. He grins and says, "No problem." We walk down the fancy and sleek building in silence. It has been a strangely bonding experience, being cooped up in that office for hours talking about the movie. But then I remember that he is Jude Armstrong, and I am still Hattie Hutchinson from Tulsa, Oklahoma.

Artemis is flitting in and out of rooms. "Let's do something interesting, Hattie!" he calls out to me. I surreptitiously give him a hard look and he only laughs. Jude doesn't know about the chaos surrounding us and asks me some questions. Where am I from? How long have I lived in Los Angeles? And then the completely awed inquiry about this role.

"This is really your first movie?"

I nod my head and say, "Yes."

He laughs and says, "Well, you're a lucky darling, aren't you?" I notice that he has a soft Southern tinge to the way he says things. I grin at him and mutter, "Yes, I am the luckiest." I look over at Artemis who is now walking on the ceiling. He is my luck.

"Listen, maybe we should exchange numbers or something. We should go out to lunch and discuss the movie. Whaddya think?" he asks and shrugs his shoulders. We are at the lobby of the building and the night is enveloping the dark marble setting. "Of course," I say and take out my phone. We exchange numbers and part ways. He gives me a quick hug goodbye and says, "We're gonna have to get along, Hattie!" while he walks off to the parking lot.

Artemis is standing beside me now. "I don't like him," he states blatantly as I stare off into the distance, wondering how this had ever happened. How do I have a contact in my phonebook reading "Jude Armstrong?"

I finally look at Artemis. "What the heck are you talking about? He's the nicest guy."

"Exactly. He is too nice. He's probably a chainsaw serial killer on the side." I swat the Giver on the shoulder and growl, "Shut up!" Then I realize that the doorman of the building is giving me an odd look. Artemis is invisible to him. So I look like a complete idiot.



Later that night, the Giver and I are eating dinner at the Grand Canyon. It is cold, but beautiful. A gaping wound in the earth. We sit across from each other munching on pastrami sandwiches and fries. Wind is blowing through his crisp dark hair and there is a wisp of it out of place. His blue eyes are gazing out at the canyon as he chews.

"This is one of my favorite places in the entire world," he says suddenly. I feel my heart soar. He is telling me something, something about himself. And this is all I want.

I have never been to the Grand Canyon before and it has taken me the longest of time to take the scenery in. The rock is violet with the night and the water below is rustling soothingly. Across, there are lights from campers and people, but Artemis and I are completely alone in our little nook.

"Artemis, where are you from?" I ask him. He has a regretful look on his face. His moment of weakness has betrayed him and he knows that he has to answer.

"I was born in the summer of 1734 in France," he says uneasily. I note this. His accent has always been a little off. I mean, he speaks perfect English, but there has always been a little stain of something else and now I know what it is.

"And what did you do there?" I ask. He gives me a horrendously annoyed look and says, "Hattie. Why do you need to know this? I am only here for you. You don't need to know anything about me."

"But I want to know. I want to know everything," I say easily and take another bite of my sandwich. He rolls his eyes and says warily "I was a butcher's son and when my father died I was twenty-five, I took over our shop. Three years later, I became a Giver."

"And how do you become one again?" I ask with mock casualness.

"Nice try," the Giver replies with a smirk.