As I write this, Guava Media is producing eight medium-busting shows with more in the works. I want to talk the two of you into conducting your search with us via podcast. You have just the sort of story we’re looking for.
If you’re intrigued, reach out. My details are below. Let’s call this email a small beginning to a huge success.
Regards,
Sam Tamblin
Creator and Producer, It’s Only Murder and Sex Upended
Guava Media
“That’s quite an offer.” Maggie took a breath to buy herself time to think. She’d accepted the risks of searching for a man who could exist anywhere on the human spectrum between Warren Buffett and Harvey Weinstein. But this letter suggested they do their search in public. That was an entirely different equation.
Maggie tried to circle her thoughts around this new set of hazards. If the past two weeks had shown her anything, it was just how quickly the trivial could explode into a phenomenon. Her dilemma, however, remained fundamental. Today, her grandchildren were minors and still under her care, but in six months they’d be free to do as they pleased. Today, at least, she could simultaneously influence and encourage their independence.
“Are you interested in the producer’s offer?” she finally said.
Thomas held up a finger, his mouth full of Chef Bart’s dinner. Maggie looked to Savannah for an answer.
“Kind of. We’ve talked about it.”
“But?” Maggie prodded.
“Well, for starters, I looked into this Sam Tamblin guy and there’s not much information available. The only real information we have to go on is the success of Guava Media. Which I have to admit is pretty impressive.”
Savannah paused to exchange glances with Thomas. “On the flip side, though, it feels like we might be betraying Mom.”
“Like she’d be hurt that we’re going against her wishes or something,” Thomas added.
Maggie knew the conundrum all too well.
The table went quiet for a bit, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Maggie knew there were risks to the proposal before them. Plenty. But, in what context should they be evaluated? On the one hand, looking for a biological father was a very private subject, a question of who their mother had slept with and when. But on the other hand, Thomas and Savannah couldn’t find him on their own. They needed all the information they could get, and that would only come from reaching out.
And what about the publicity of it all? If Zombie Baby had gone viral, who knew what else could happen. Then again, they’d hosted the McClair Dinner Salon for a year and still had only three hundred regular listeners. Zombie Baby was hot now, but she doubted it would prove to be much more than a blip. Certainly, no guarantee that their new podcast would garner the same attention.
Tell me, she pleaded with Bess. Tell me what to do.
Bess didn’t answer.
Savannah broke the room’s silence. “What sort of producer uses a phrase like ‘medium-busting,’ though? Sounds iffy.”
“He’s probably a millennial.” Thomas scooped a mound of crab stuffing onto his fork. “He produces podcasts—that’s mostly a millennial thing, right? I bet he’s twenty-five years old, tops. Probably has a beard, too.”
He held his plate out to Savannah. “If you’re not going to eat your crab, load me up.”
“If I can have your fish.”
“Deal.”
“And his flagship podcast,” Savannah went on. “It’s Only Murder? Seriously. It’s only murder on the ears. Have you heard it? That host has a major case of vocal fry.”
“True,” said Thomas. “But then again, the show averages a half-million downloads per episode. Pretty impressive.”
“What is vocal fry?” Maggie interjected.
“It’s the term internet trolls have given to people who let their voices slip to the back of their throat,” Thomas explained. “It makes the sound sort of crackle. Like they’re sitting on their vocal cords instead of projecting through them.”
Savannah demonstrated. “I’m an internet troll and I can’t use my brain to think for myself.”
Awful. “You sound like the last peals of a deflating balloon.”
“That’s a good way to describe it.” Thomas nodded.
“And most of the time,” said Savannah, “the accusations of vocal fry are totally misogynistic. Mostly young women broadcasters are accused. Which, of course, conveniently overlooks the fact that just as many men exhibit vocal fry as women.”
Thomas shrugged. “What she said.”
“And I know what you’re thinking, Maggie,” Savannah added. “But no. It’s neither the result nor cause of any gory medical conditions.”
Maggie mock-scowled. “You ought to be kinder to me. I am your elder.”
She suddenly remembered the day she first met George. It was May 1978. At the stoplight at Twelfth and La Salle. He stood directly in front of her, apparently fresh from the barber’s chair because the skin on the back of his neck turned from bronze to pale in the narrow space between the old hairline and the new. There was also a heart-shaped freckle behind his right ear, and she found it nearly impossible to resist touching it. She’d said, “I’ve always loved a man who smells like Barbasol and talc.”
They married eight weeks later.
Maggie didn’t believe in living life small. She believed in living. Period.
“Trust your instincts, loves,” she said finally. She looked at each of her grandchildren in turn. Savannah. Then Thomas.
Too afraid to stop them, huh? Bess whispered.
Oh, perfect, Maggie replied. Now you show up?
Trigg:
OMG!!!!! [screaming cat face emoji] You’re gonna be famous!!!!!!!!!!!! [microphone emoji] [dancing woman emoji] [fireworks emoji]
Trigg:
You totally have to do it. I don’t know why you’re even thinking twice about it. [thought cloud emoji] [thinking face emoji]
Trigg:
Your dad is going to be so normal. Like, normal normal. Norm. We’ll just call him Norm. Normal Norm. [Caucasian male face emoji] [geek face emoji]
Trigg:
Plus, this is what you want, right? Big time producer. OMG!!! What if you get discovered and they make your story into a movie?! That could totally totally totally happen. [popcorn bucket emoji] [movie ticket emoji] [movie camera emoji] Can I be in the movie?
Savannah:
Nobody is even going to care, stupid. Settle down.
[yoga pose emoji]
Four
Savannah
The next day, Savannah sat in her eleventh-grade English class, her favorite. Most of her classmates were morons, but the books their teacher, Mrs. Thornbird, assigned were great. Plus, she gave them writing projects every week—and on those, Savannah excelled.
The bell rang and Mrs. Thornbird instructed the class to pipe down. She’d graded their one-act plays and she wanted to read an example aloud.
“I won’t say whose work this is, but I want you to listen up for how the student uses dialogue to craft the story. It’s really well done.” She cleared her throat. “This is titled, Midnight Visit.”
Savannah panicked. She sank down in her seat as low as she could, though even if she could have sunk all the way to the school basement, it wouldn’t have been deep enough to hide from what she knew was coming.
“We open on a young woman in bed,” Mrs. Thornbird read. “She’s dressed in her nightgown and has obviously been sleeping. An elderly woman sits on the side of the bed, looking at her.”
ELLIE: Oh! I was hoping you’d come tonight. I’ve missed you so much.
Parker White piped up from the back row. Because of course he would—he never had anything better to do than mock Savannah. “Oh,” he purred, his voice all churlish and high-pitched. “I was hoping you’d come to
night.” Then, growling, he responded to himself and said, “Oooh yeah, me, too, baby.”
“Parker White!” Mrs. Thornbird barked.
Parker mumbled an insincere apology at the teacher while flashing Savannah a Cheshire Cat smile.
Idiot, she mouthed.
Mrs. Thornbird continued.
[Ellie moves to prop herself up. The elderly woman smiles at Ellie but does not speak.]
ELLIE: There’s so much I’ve been wanting to tell you. Where should I start? School isn’t very much fun, so that’s nothing new. And life at home is just, you know, life at home. But I’m still glad you came.
[Ellie moves as if to hug the old woman but stops.]
ELLIE: To be honest, I’ve been sort of sad lately. Okay, maybe that’s obvious. You probably already know how I feel.
[Ellie waits for the visitor to respond. When she does nothing more than continue to smile, Ellie speaks again.]
ELLIE: Is that why you came? Because I’m so sad? Did I summon you? Did you feel how much I needed you? Because, I’ve thought about it a lot—A LOT—and I don’t really understand what you can see and hear and feel of me. I mean, why can’t you come visit every night? I want you with me all the time. Mom says you are. She says that we can talk to you whenever we want. That even though we can’t see you doesn’t mean you aren’t with us. But I don’t know how to feel you, except during times like now, when you visit me.
[The elderly woman moves a hand to Ellie’s back.]
Mrs. Thornbird dropped the script to her side. “The play goes on for several more pages, but that gives you a good example of what I’m talking about.”
She moved across the room, dropped Savannah’s script on the pile of assignments, and perched on the corner of her desk. “After hearing that, what do you think the author did particularly well?”
She waited, but no one raised their hand. Typical. No one in their class was dumb enough to intentionally make themselves vulnerable to the endless cycle of ridicule that was life at Lincoln High School. At least Savannah had an excuse to keep her hand down, given that she wasn’t about to compliment her own work.
“Ms. Westlund.” The teacher pointed to Carrie Westlund, who was more famous with her Instagram followers than anyone they were in class with. “What do you think the author did well?”
Carrie tilted her head and stared at the ceiling. “Well, it sounded pretty real. Is that right?”
“It’s your opinion, Ms. Westlund—there are no right and wrong answers.”
“Okay, then, yeah. The dialogue sounded real.” Carrie sat back in her chair, looking relieved to have that over with.
Then, in a move that seemed to surprise Mrs. Thornbird as much as anyone, Savannah’s best friend, Trigg, raised her hand.
“I think it was cool that the author only wrote dialogue for one of her characters. Like, there are two characters, but only one of them is speaking. The other one doesn’t say anything at all, but you sort of know what she’s saying just from what she does, physically. Like when she reaches out to rub Savannah’s back. You know she’s being kind.”
Savannah stifled a scream—Trigg had just told everyone the play was hers! She tried to sink farther into her seat, but her butt slipped off the front of her chair and she nearly landed on the floor.
Mrs. Thornbird put up her hand. “Let’s please leave names out of our discussion, Ms. Kline.”
“Sorry, Mrs. T. I meant to say Ellie.”
Savannah put her forehead on the desk. When was this torture going to end?
“Anyway.” Apparently, Trigg wasn’t done yet. “I think the play says a lot, even with only one character talking. Especially because it’s such a mysterious topic. I mean, I know lots of people would like to see their dead loved ones in dreams, but like, Savannah’s mom actually came to her. And Savannah captures that in the play. I’m super jealous of her talent.”
There was no choice now. Savannah had no choice but to curl up and die, right there at her desk. She hadn’t even lifted her head, and already she could feel a whole classroom of faces turning to look at her.
“Is that true,” the girl in front of her whispered. “Do you see your mom’s ghost?”
No, Savannah moaned and rolled her head from side to side. No, no, no.
She’d written a play. A stupid, fictional play—about a grandmother, no less. Not a mother. What was Trigg thinking? Savannah had told her about her mom once, in confidence, in the middle of the night during a sleepover. But now, thanks to her best friend’s big mouth, Savannah was about to become the social punching bag of the entire school.
Parker White leaned over and wailed like a dying teenager in a slasher film. “Help me! I see dead people!”
Savannah kept her head on her desk. “You’re an asshole, Parker.”
None of these idiots understood—what it was like to lose your mom, to have to live with your grandmother because there wasn’t a single other person in your entire family left to take care of you. The closest any of her stupid classmates came to losing a parent was divorce—but even then, they still got to see their mom and dad. Savannah’s mom was dead. Gone. Never coming back. And she’d never even known her father. For all practical purposes, she was an orphan. A pitiful orphan who missed her mother so much she conjured her up in her sleep.
Maybe Thomas hadn’t been so wrong about wanting to find their biodad, after all.
Five
Thomas
“A fully produced, commercially sponsored, episodic search for your biodad. The whole package.” The following afternoon, Thomas sat clustered with Savannah and Maggie at the kitchen table while Sam Tamblin’s voice echoed through the speakerphone.
“More and more, podcast audiences are clamoring for a good mystery. Not only that, they want an active role in solving it. Listeners want to dig their fingers in, find clues, debate conclusions. Do you know how many hours the average podcast überfan will spend on a discussion thread? It’s crazy. You don’t even want to know. Point is, give the audience a regular dose of cliff-hanger crack and those superfans will step in and do half your work.”
Savannah reached over and pressed Mute. “Are we sure this guy’s for real?”
Sam Tamblin carried on, unaware. “We’re thinking, start out with the cast of characters. Introduce the could-be daddies. Give the audience just enough info to believe any one of these men could be the needle in your genetic haystack. We spend a few episodes exploring each father’s potential, only to inevitably uncover the one irrefutable piece of evidence that forces him off the list. By the end, we have maybe two or three viable candidates left and BAM! We hit the world with a DNA-slash-final episode superreveal.”
The three of them stared at the phone in disbelief.
“Just so we’re clear,” Savannah said to everyone but Sam, who was still muted, “I don’t want to do that.”
“Of course not,” said Thomas. “But let’s get a contract first.” He unmuted the line. “Hey, Sam, sounds interesting. Tell us more.”
Savannah hit the Mute button again. “Don’t tell him that! He’ll think we like the idea.”
“I know. I’m just humoring him.”
“Don’t.”
“Well, you’re not saying anything at all.”
“Yeah, but at least I’m not saying anything wrong.”
Thomas heard Sam Tamblin now going on about the evolution of criminal versus familial DNA. He unmuted the line.
“Hey, Sam,” Thomas interrupted. “Let’s discuss all that. But before I forget, I’d like to have a role in engineering the audio for whatever we do. We have a fair bit of equipment from our Dinner Salon podcast and I’d like to build it out into a full studio setup.”
He smirked at Savannah. Let her argue that was the wrong thing to say.
“Oh, uh, cool. Excellent,” said Sam. “We’ll have to test
the sound, all that. But if it checks out, we’ll run with on-site recording. Save some money on studio rental.”
Thomas smiled, and a flush of pride ran up his neck.
Savannah muted the line again. “If you get to engineer, I want to produce.”
“All right,” said Thomas. “Tell him that.”
“He’s going to say no.”
“No, he won’t. Just tell him.” Thomas unmuted the line. “Sam?” Then mouthed tell him at Savannah.
She scowled but took a run at it. “How do you determine who gets to produce? Is that just one person, or more than one—”
Thomas gave her a good grief look and pointed at the phone, urging her to try again—this time for-real asking instead of hinting.
As for Sam, he met Savannah’s questions with silence. Nothing. They waited for him to respond, until finally, Maggie spoke up. “Has Savannah’s question taken you by surprise, Mr. Tamblin?”
“I don’t know what she’s asking.”
Thomas felt a small surge of I told you so but kept it to himself.
“I’m sure you’re aware of my granddaughter’s career ambitions and skill.”
Another moment of silence, and Sam said, “Savannah, I can let you write some of the scripts.”
Savannah’s mouth fell open, but no words came. After a pause, she hit the Mute button again. “Seriously? He said yes to Thomas’s requests without a second thought.”
“You didn’t actually ask to produce, Van. And he’s giving you a chance to write.”
“Yeah, but—” She deflated into her chair. “Oh, whatever. Fine, I’ll write. But it just goes to show how women always start out two rungs below their male competitors, no matter how good they are.” She gave Thomas a pointed look.
He threw his hands up. “What did I do?” Typical Savannah.
Maggie studied her. “Are you certain?”
Savannah nodded. Then Maggie, their guardian and the only one at the table who could legally agree to a deal, unmuted the line one last time. “Mr. Tamblin? I believe we’ve reached an agreement.”
The Kids Are Gonna Ask Page 4