by Jen Wilde
I throw my head back and stare at the ceiling. “Whaaaaat. Why didn’t you say anything?”
He pats my hand comfortingly. “Not my place. I knew if you were queer, you’d tell me when you were ready. And yay! That’s today!”
He stands up and dances over to me, wrapping his arms around my waist and picking me up. I squeal as he starts spinning, like we’re awfully uncoordinated ballroom dancers. But I go with it, spreading my arms out wide.
“This is your Simba moment,” he says. Then he starts singing “The Circle of Life” from The Lion King, and I can’t help myself, I burst into laughter.
* * *
Later, we’re in his car driving down the highway to Rosemount Studios, and he starts throwing questions at me.
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
“Ex-girlfriends?”
“Nope. Never even been on a date.”
“Wait,” he says. “Have you ever kissed anyone?”
“Well,” I say, smirking, “I used to kiss my Lexa poster before bed every night.”
He laughs. “Lexa from The 100?”
“She’s a babe.” It feels so good to be able to talk about this with him. I’ve imagined these conversations so many times. “My obsession with Clexa is what got me writing fanfic.”
He chuckles. “Reason number 103 I thought you were probably queer, bee-tee-dubs.”
We laugh about that until my stomach hurts, and then I sigh.
“But,” I say, “to answer your question: No, I’ve never kissed an actual real-life person before.”
“Aww.” He pats my leg. “You’re so lucky. Think of all the firsts you have ahead of you.”
I gaze out the window, letting my imagination take me somewhere else. I picture my first date, my first kiss, my first everything … and the only person I want to share those firsts with is Shrupty.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I’m in line at the café, waiting to pick up my standing order of coffees for the writers’ room, when I notice Malcolm sitting at a table in the corner. Angela, the receptionist in the production building, is sitting across from him. Under the table, she slips off her heels, then drags one of her feet up his leg. I turn away quickly, not wanting to see what happens next. I keep my back to them until my order is ready, then hurry out the door before they see me.
I’m walking down the hall to the writers’ room when I notice Andy still in his office, so I knock on the door and pop my head in.
“Are you coming to this morning’s meeting?” I ask. “Or do you want your coffee in here?”
He looks up at me from his laptop, his brows pinched together like he’s confused. “Oh, you didn’t get the e-mail. Malcolm has a breakfast thing, so the meeting was canceled.”
“Oh.” I stare at the tray of coffees in my hands. I guess I’ll just make the rounds to everyone’s offices and hand them out. I leave Andy’s on his desk, then continue down the hall to Jane. But before I reach her door, I see Malcolm from the window. He’s still with Angela, and they’re getting into his car. I vaguely remember seeing something online about him being married. Maybe Angela is his wife, and I just never put two and two together.
I knock on Jane’s door and she calls me in. “Coffee?” I ask, and she slumps back in her chair.
“Oh thank god,” she groans. “You’re an angel.” I hand a cup to her, and she breathes it in.
“I just heard the meeting was canceled,” I say.
She nods. “Malcolm has some big important breakfast with an exec or something.” She puts the coffee down, then starts sorting through a pile of papers on her desk like she’s looking for something. “You’d think he would’ve given me a heads-up. I could’ve easily led the room without him for one day. But nope, no one is allowed to even talk about story ideas unless he’s there.”
“Wait,” I say. “An exec? I just saw him leaving with Angela.” The second the words leave my mouth, I regret them. I don’t want to start any drama—especially drama that involves Malcolm.
Jane’s jaw drops. “Angela? Front desk Angela?”
“Yeah. I didn’t realize they were married.”
Jane drops her face in her hands and groans.
“What?” I ask, feeling very confused but also somehow certain that I’ve said something I shouldn’t have.
Jane looks up at me, and I’m surprised to see she’s laughing. Cackling, even.
“Bex, honey,” she says, shaking her head at me. “You are too pure for this town. Malcolm is married. But Angela is not his wife.”
“Oh,” I say, frowning. “Oh.”
“Yup.” She pushes her hands through her hair, looking frazzled. “Jesus, shit. I bet this is why he’s been slacking more than usual lately. I thought he was just burned-out. God dammit.”
With another, longer groan, Jane stands up from her desk and picks up her handbag and the coffee. I step aside as she passes, not wanting to get in her way. “I swear to god, if it wasn’t for me, this show would never make it to air on time. And Ruby just left for New York for a week of back-to-back meetings, so Malcolm is going to check out like he always does when she’s away. I am a ball of stress.” She speeds down the hall like a tornado, then stops halfway and turns around. “Are you coming? We’ve got work to do.”
I jump to attention and hurry to catch up to her, listening quietly as she talks about how crappy Malcolm is. I’m not gonna lie, I enjoy every juicy insult.
“If I was showrunner,” she says, “we’d be in the room together all day. Breaking story ideas, working on outlines, writing scenes. It would be a democracy, not a dictatorship.”
We arrive on set, where I take script notes and get drinks and run errands. I’m on my way to Archer’s trailer to tell him he’s needed on set, when I see Shrupty walking across the lot, looking a little confused. I take a quick detour to go talk to her, and she smiles when she sees me.
“Oh thank god!” she says. “I’m so lost.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I just did a wardrobe fitting for Lyla,” she says, twisting her long hair in her fingers. “And Alyssa asked me to stop by her trailer. She’s got some time between filming and wants to start rehearsing our scenes for next week.” She lifts her arms in the air, gesturing to the chaos around us. “But this place is a maze.”
“I’m headed to the trailers right now,” I say, pointing behind me. “I can show you the way.”
“Oh, thanks! You’re super familiar with this script, right?”
“Yeah, I’m familiar with it,” I say. An understatement. Malcolm never did get my name added to the script cover, and Dirk won’t reply to my e-mails about it, so I can’t really take any credit for it publicly yet.
She takes her sunglasses off and bites her bottom lip like she’s unsure of something. “Would I be asking too much if I asked you to help me go over my lines? I’m staying late tonight to keep rehearsing with Alyssa in between shooting, and I’d feel so much better about my performance if you were there to guide me.”
“I’d love to!” I say, perhaps a touch too enthusiastically. “I mean, sure. I can swing by. I don’t know how much help I’ll be, though.”
She breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank you so much.”
I take her to Alyssa’s door just as she’s stepping out with Will.
“Um,” I say, shuffling my feet from side to side awkwardly. “I gotta go, but I’ll meet you back here later?”
Shrupty smiles, and my heart wants to reach out and hug her. “Can’t wait.”
I turn and walk away, smiling to myself. She said she can’t wait. Like she can’t wait to see me? Or she can’t wait to rehearse? Damn these cryptic lesbian linguistics. How does anyone get together in this world? It’s way more confusing than they make it look in rom-coms.
I reach Archer’s trailer, but it takes a few knocks before I hear movement inside. He’s mid-yawn when he opens it, and his hair is flat on one side, like
he’s been napping.
“What’s up?” he asks as he stretches his arms in the air.
“You’re due on set,” I say. He steps out and swings his door closed behind him.
“Can I get a green juice?” he asks. “I need fuel.” I’m about to answer when he notices Will chatting with Alyssa and Shrupty.
“Oh,” he says with a smirk. “The new girl’s here. I’ve seen some of her videos on YouTube. Do you know if she’s single?”
My skin prickles. “Shrupty? You know she’s, like, über gay, right?” I’m surprised he doesn’t know that; Shrupty is super open about it online.
He does a double take. “Jeez, look at that.” He nods toward the three of them, watching like he’s found a rare Pokémon. “They’re all gay. I guess this is what it feels like to be a minority.” He laughs, then nudges me with his elbow when I don’t laugh. “Us straights better stick together.”
I break into a sweat. I desperately want to correct him. I want to pat him on the back, say something witty like “You’re on your own, bud,” then walk over to join the others. I want to call him out for thinking he has any idea what it’s like to be a minority … but I can’t.
The fact that he felt the need to point out that three queer people are having a conversation, like it’s a novelty or something to be gawked at, doesn’t make me feel like I can trust him with my own queerness. I don’t know if I’m ready to declare it proudly to someone who might not be receptive to it. So I grit my teeth as he erases my sexuality and cracks jokes about it. And then I go fetch a green juice for him, the whole time kicking myself for not speaking up.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
INT. SASHA’S APARTMENT—NIGHT
Sasha enters. She walks into her kitchen, opens the fridge, and takes out a beer. A shadow moves in the background that she doesn’t see. She closes the fridge, pops the cap off the bottle, and takes a sip as she walks into the living room. Another shadow moves behind her that she doesn’t see. She puts the beer down, then turns suddenly and pins the intruder against the wall, her knife to their throat.
LYLA
You’re good.
SASHA
Better than you, hunter.
LYLA
I’m not here to kill you. Don’t get your tail in a twist.
SASHA
Then what do you want from me?
LYLA
I’ll tell you. But first you need to get your blade off of my neck.
Sasha hesitates.
LYLA
Come on. Why would I let you go if I wanted you dead?
Sasha slowly pulls the knife away, then backs off.
SASHA
You’ll forgive me if I don’t trust so easily. That’s a side effect of people constantly trying to kill you.
Lyla smirks, rubs her neck where the knife was.
LYLA
Trust me, if I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead.
“Wait,” Shrupty says, breaking character. “Should I sound smug when I say that? Or more determined?”
I look up from the script in my lap. I’m in Alyssa’s trailer, cross-legged on the couch while they stand in the middle of the room, going over their lines.
“Smug determination?” Alyssa suggests, then chuckles. “Is that a thing?”
“Definitely. Think about why she’s there,” I say. “She suspects that the people who raised her and loved her growing up are actually the people who killed her parents. She’s questioning everything she’s ever known and seeking the help of someone she was always told was the enemy. Lyla is conflicted but knows she needs to find out the truth.”
Alyssa leans against the kitchen counter, watching me. “You really know this character. Did Malcolm tell you all that?”
Oh shit. That’s right; no one else knows that I wrote this episode, that Lyla is my character. I want to tell them, but I’m afraid they won’t believe me. Who would believe an intern over the showrunner? “It was discussed when the writers were tabling the script.”
I take my phone out and send Dirk yet another e-mail asking him to credit me on 612, making sure to CC Malcolm.
Alyssa holds the script close to her chest. “I’m so in love with this episode. I can’t wait till the fans see it.” She grins at the thought. “Their minds are going to explode, for real.”
Seeing her so excited about it gives me butterflies. “I hope so.”
“I never thought Sasha would be canonically gay,” she continues. “I’ve been begging Malcolm to finally confirm her queerness for months, but I never expected he would literally write her a romance. I guess he deserves more credit than I gave him.”
I wince a little. I want to tell her that he deserves exactly none of the credit. But seeing how happy it’s already making Alyssa fills me with pride. If it means that much to her, I can’t imagine how fans are going to react. I should focus on what’s important: that this episode gets made.
Shrupty sits down next to me, her forehead crinkled with worry. She’s so tense that her shoulders are hunched, like she’s trying to curl up into a ball. I relate to her so much right now.
Someone knocks on the door, and Alyssa goes to answer it and steps outside.
“Hey,” I say quietly to Shrupty. “Just FYI, you’re doing amazing. You know, in case you’re filled with horrifying self-doubt right now.”
She laughs, and I feel a sense of triumph knowing that I made her smile. I want to do it again.
“Is it that obvious?” she asks, scrunching her nose up.
I shake my head. “To the average person, no. But I have a sixth sense for this. I can spot anxiety from a mile away.” I raise an eyebrow smugly. “It’s a side effect of living with debilitating anxiety myself. I can sense my own kind.”
“Heh,” she says. “That’s a weird superpower to have. Mine is falling in love with totally unavailable people.”
I rest my elbows on my knees. “I guess that means I have two weird superpowers then, because same.”
Shrupty lifts her hand to her chest and starts playing with her necklace. The pendant looks to be an emerald, surrounded by tiny silver spheres in a floral design. It hangs on the end of a delicate silver chain, long enough for the emerald to sit just above her cleavage.
“That’s really beautiful,” I say, gesturing to the necklace.
She holds it out gently and gazes down at it. “Thanks. It’s a family heirloom from India. My grandmother gave it to me before she died.” The emerald shines in the light as she turns it. “It was a brooch originally, but I wanted to wear it all the time, so my mom had it made into a necklace. I never ever take it off.”
I can tell her family means a lot to her, and a pang of guilt hits my stomach for being so dismissive of my own lately. I’ve been waiting for a good time to call Mom so we can have a real conversation, but something always gets in the way. Or maybe I’m still working up the courage to actually hit that call button.
“Do you have any heirlooms?” she asks me, genuinely interested. “Anything that gets passed down from generation to generation?”
I try not to laugh. Yeah, sure, like overwhelming debt, mental illness, and skin that freckles and burns when it’s touched by sunlight.
“Nope,” I say.
She gives me a curious look. “You don’t like to reveal too much about yourself, do you?”
I open the script again and clear my throat. “Not that much to reveal.”
Just then, Alyssa returns, holding a bouquet of flowers and a dessert box. She’s smiling so wide I can see her wisdom teeth. I’m grateful for the interruption.
“Oooh!” Shrupty coos. “Someone’s popular!”
Alyssa giggles. “They’re from Charlie. It’s our two-year anniversary today.” Like Alyssa, her girlfriend, Charlie Liang, made it big on YouTube before moving into acting.
Shrupty and I both swoon.
“You girls are seriously couple goals for me,” I say.
Alyssa puts the flowers on the dining table and sits on th
e chair across from us. “You’re queer, right, Bex?”
I jolt back slightly, surprised by her question. No one has ever straight-up asked me that before. I’m not mad, though, because I’ve been trying to figure out a way to work this into a conversation with Shrupty for days.
“Yeah,” I say. “How’d you know?”
“My gaydar never fails,” she says with a smirk.
Shrupty stares down at the pages in her lap. “I guess mine has malfunctioned, because I wasn’t so sure.” I turn to her, wondering what that means. Has she been trying to figure out if I’m queer? She grimaces, like she said something she shouldn’t have, then scrambles to explain. “I mean, um, not that I was trying to find out. Or that it matters. Should we take this scene from the top?”
I feel a smile tugging at my lips, but I manage to suppress it. I don’t know if I’m reading too much into it, but I think I’ve been on her mind more than I realized. Maybe I have a chance with Shrupty, after all.
Just then, my phone buzzes with a text from my mom.
Mom: how are you, honey?
I’m about to slide my phone back into my pocket, but then I think of everything Parker said when we fought, and Shrupty talking about her grandmother, and I have to reply.
Bex: good! Working. I’ll call you later.
Mom: oh yay! Yes I’d love to hear your voice. Xo
That just makes my guilt even worse. I never meant to ignore her for so long; it’s just with everything that’s been happening, Westmill couldn’t be further from my mind. Or maybe … maybe I want it to be out of my mind. Maybe Parker was right about me, maybe I am ashamed. And instead of dealing with it, I’ve been trying to forget about it.
But it’s not just that. There’s also the fact that I still haven’t come out to her. And now that I’m here in LA, trying to live an openly gay life, I’m worried about how hard it’s going to be to pretend to be straight when I speak to her. I’m scared it will feel like I’m taking a step backward, like I’m retreating into the shell that I’ve been using all my courage to shatter. I don’t know if I’m ready for Mom to ask me if I’ve met any nice boys here. I don’t want to lie to her, but I’m not ready to be honest, either. So right now, it’s easier to disappear. Just for a little while.