Going Off Script

by Jen Wilde

  “I’m due on set soon,” Alyssa says as she checks the time on her phone. “I think it’s going to be a long night. Hope y’all don’t mind waiting on set; we can keep rehearsing during my breaks.”

  Shrupty nods. “Totally cool with me. I’m excited to come to set with you and watch the magic happen.” She looks at me, waiting for my answer. Once again, I find myself unable to say no to her.

  “Bring on the long night.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Later, I’m sitting in a golf cart outside the set, replying to comments on the Silver Falls Instagram account and eating my homemade PB&J, when Shrupty slides in next to me, in the driver’s seat.

  “Hey!” she says. “Lunch break?” I nod, still chewing on my last bite. “I’ve always wanted to drive one of these.” She looks around, then gives me a mischievous grin and clutches the steering wheel. “Let’s take it for a spin!”

  I almost choke on my sandwich. Before I can protest, she’s turned the key in the ignition and we’re rolling down the street.

  “What if someone needs this?” I ask, meaning the golf cart.

  Shrupty shrugs. “There were two others nearby. Besides, we won’t be long. I just want to explore this place a little so I don’t get lost again.”

  I don’t argue because I’ve been wanting to sneak away and explore the studios since my first day. And yeah, okay, I’ll take any excuse to spend some one-on-one time with Shrupty. She follows the road until the crowds of crew and visitors ease and we reach the studio back lots.

  “This is where they film Cooper Street,” I say as we drive into Kinney Village. It’s like a little suburb, with picturesque Craftsman-style houses that many beloved characters have called home over the years. These days, it’s home to bored housewives who find themselves embroiled in one neighborhood scandal after another. My mom is obsessed with that show, so I ask Shrupty to stop so I can snap some quick photos for her.

  Then we follow the road out of the ’burbs, around Rosemount Square, with its clock tower, which has been the backdrop for dozens of blockbuster films, and into New York Street.

  Shrupty hits the brakes. “Wow! This looks eerily like my street on the Upper East Side.”

  “You have a place in New York?” I ask, impressed.

  “My parents do,” she says. “But we don’t spend as much time there as we used to. Not since we bought our Paris place.”

  A place in Beverly Hills, Manhattan, and Paris? Whoa. Three homes? My family didn’t even have three bedrooms. Our entire bungalow could probably fit in her closet. My heart sinks as I realize just how out of my league this girl is. I don’t stand a chance.

  She keeps driving until we come across Davenport Lake, which is actually just a pond with an über-realistic painted backdrop. In real life, it doesn’t look that great, but if you film it from very specific angles it creates the illusion of a gorgeous, expansive lake, surrounded by pine trees.

  “Do you mind if we chill here for a sec?” she asks.

  “Sure,” I say. “But I should probably get back to Jane soon.”

  She nods and steps out of the golf cart. I follow as she walks to the edge of the lake and sits down on the grass. Her hair flows in the breeze, and I find myself staring at her instead of the famous scenery around us.

  “Is this what it looks like where you’re from?” she asks when I sit next to her. I freeze.

  “Um.” I look at the wall of fake trees, thinking about how the nicest park in Westmill was practically just a patch of dead grass and a rusted swing set you needed a tetanus shot to use. “Not really.” I desperately need to change the subject so she doesn’t ask me any questions about my life, so I quickly add, “Are you feeling better after watching some of the filming?”

  “Ugh.” She pulls her knees up to her chest. “I dunno. I hope I’ll be good enough. But, like, I’ve never done anything like this before, so I’m worried I’m just going to look like a giant, talentless loser.”

  “I can definitely relate to that,” I say. It’s comforting to know that even with all her money and fame, she still deals with self-doubt just like me. “But you killed the auditions, and you have great chemistry with Alyssa, so I fully believe you’re gonna blow everyone away as Lyla.”

  She smiles and pushes her hair behind her ear—something I’ve noticed she does whenever I give her a compliment. “I hope so. Having you there to offer feedback helped a lot.”

  I cringe a little. “I doubt that. I’m no actor.”

  “No,” she says. “You’re a writer. And that’s why I asked you for help. You know the script front to back. You know the show. You know what Malcolm and the writers have planned for Lyla and Sasha. I need that genius.”

  My cheeks flush. She called me a writer and a genius in one breath. Wow.

  She leans back on her elbows and stares up at the sky. “I guess I’m just nervous. I feel a lot of responsibility to get this character right, you know? It’s not every day that a gay Indian girl gets to play a gay Indian girl. And the fact that Lyla is going to have a romance arc with Sasha, a queer black girl played by a queer black girl … and neither of them die at the end? That’s huge. I want to make sure I do it justice.”

  I nod along, agreeing with every word she says. “I wish it wasn’t so rare.”

  Shrupty scoffs. “Believe me, so do I. But we’ll get there.” She raises her fist and I bump it with mine. “We’ll get there.”

  When we both rest our hands back on the grass, our pinkie fingers touch. My first instinct is to jerk my hand away, but then I think … What if I don’t? What if I just let it be? So I keep my hand still, relishing the feel of her skin against mine, even if it’s barely an inch of contact. Shrupty doesn’t move her hand, either. My heart flutters. Does this mean something?

  I glance down at our pinkies. Mine is chubbier than hers, with nails I’ve stress-chewed into nothing. Her nails are perfectly manicured and painted a turquoise that pops against her brown skin. I’m still staring at our fingers when she moves hers closer to mine. I’m so surprised that I almost jump. I look up at her, expecting her to be watching the water, but she’s looking right back at me from behind her long, dark lashes. She gives me a slow smile. My heart beats like a drum.

  If this were a TV show, I’d be so smooth right now. I’d lean in just slow enough to build suspense. Shrupty would lean in, too, closing her eyes in anticipation. Our mouths would meet softly, then the passion between us would grow more intense, and so would the kiss. Sun flares would cast a gorgeous natural light on us, making our silhouettes glow. A cool breeze would gently sway our hair, but not enough to get in the way of our lips melting together. Our kiss would be romantic, sweet, gentle but powerful. It would be perfect. An epic queer soundtrack would play over us, maybe a Janelle Monáe song. Ahh. It would be so dreamy.

  But this isn’t a TV show. Nancy Meyers is not writing or directing my life. This is the back lot of Rosemount Studios. The sun is hidden behind smog, the air is sticky and hot, and I am incapable of being chill or smooth in any situation. I’m sweaty and anxious and too worried about my peanut butter breath to even utter a word. And besides, what if she doesn’t want to kiss me? Consent is an important thing. I’d want to ask her before I ever did anything like that. And I’m not asking until I’m absolutely positive that she likes me back. The only problem with that strategy is that she would have to literally say, to my face, without a hint of sarcasm or joking grin, “Bex, I like you.” And even then, I don’t think I’d actually believe it.

  So I break our lingering stare. I pull my hand away. And I stand up from our little patch of grass by the fake lake.

  “We should get going,” I say. “My lunch break is over, and someone probably needs me on set. Those green juices aren’t going to fetch themselves.” I chuckle, but Shrupty hardly cracks a smile.

  “Sure,” she says quietly. Then we walk back to the golf cart, climb in, and drive to the soundstage in silence.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
<
br />   It’s 6:00 A.M. when the director finally calls “cut” and the episode is wrapped. I’ve spent most of the night balancing intern duties with helping Shrupty rehearse. We haven’t spoken about anything that isn’t work-related since the lake, and I’m a bundle of confusion and regret and heartache. I keep replaying the moment in my mind like I’m watching a scene in the editing bay. Pausing it at moments that seem so clearly obvious to me now, but at the time I didn’t notice. Zooming in on the tiny movements she made that could have been signals. The fingers touching. The lingering looks. The sweet smile.

  And then there was me, sitting there beside the most amazing girl I’ve ever met, and instead of making a move I obsessed over all the reasons it wasn’t a perfect moment. What the hell was I waiting for? A director to shout “action”?

  The sun is rising before I finally admit to myself that I fucked up. I should have kissed her. But I didn’t, and I have a sinking feeling that I lost her forever. She’s hardly been able to make eye contact with me all night.

  “I need a nap,” she says as we walk back to Alyssa’s trailer.

  “You can crash on my couch until the table read,” Alyssa says. “I’ve got a breakfast date with Charlie, so you’ll have it all to yourself.”

  Shrupty lets out a drawn-out yawn. “Thanks.”

  I don’t care how sleep-deprived I am, there’s no way I’m missing the table read for the episode I wrote. Even if no one else knows I wrote it but me and Malcolm.

  Alyssa says a quick good-bye, then heads toward the parking lot. I keep walking with Shrupty, racking my tired brain for something to say.

  “Did you have a good night?” I ask, then feel kind of silly about it.

  She yawns again. “Yeah. It was intense, but I loved seeing how it all works behind the scenes. I can’t wait to start filming next week.” We stop in front of Alyssa’s trailer, and she reaches for my hand, then stops herself and pulls away. “Thanks again for staying back to help me.”

  Okay. She almost just held my hand. I saw that. I’m not imagining it or reading too much into it. Not this time. Now’s my chance to let her know I like her back. I hold my breath, then reach out and take her hand in mine. “My pleasure.”

  Shrupty glances down at our linked fingers, then looks up at me. A surprised smile grows on her face. “Um. I guess I’ll see you at the table read?”

  I nod, then she opens the door to the trailer. But we don’t let go.

  “Bye,” I say, smiling. “Sleep well.”

  “Thanks,” she says. She takes the first step up, then the next, and we still don’t let go. Even when she yawns for the third time.

  “You’re tired,” I say. “I’ll let you get some rest.”

  She stifles yet another yawn. “Okay. You’re right.”

  We both look down at our hands that won’t let go of each other, and giggle.

  “Okay,” she says. “Good night.” I can tell she’s not going to let go by the twinkle in her eye, but my anxiety is starting to rise. I’m not used to these feelings. And I’m especially not used to having these feelings reciprocated. So I slowly, gently slide my fingers away from hers.

  “’Night,” I say. I wait until she closes the door, then spin on my heels and fist pump the air. “Yessss!”

  To my horror, I hear Shrupty giggling from the window. She just saw me celebrate holding her hand.

  “You saw nothing!” I call to her.

  “I saw everything!” she calls back, laughing harder.

  “Gotta go! Byeeeeee!” I walk away as fast as I can, embarrassed but also totally giddy.

  * * *

  I arrive to the table read ten minutes early to set up the snacks, bags of pastries hanging off my arms. I already ate one on the way; I was starving and I like to take my meds with food so they digest easier. Malcolm is seated at the head of the table, highlighting lines in our script.

  “I come bringing gifts,” I say to the gathering cast members as I lay the Danishes, macarons, and doughnuts on the middle of the long table. I’ve barely emptied the bags before half of them are gone. I’m snapping a photo of the table to post to the Silver Falls Instagram later, when Malcolm spits out some of the lemon Danish he just bit into.

  “This is stale. Who did this?!” He looks around at everyone in the room, easily upward of twenty people, like he’s King Joffrey demanding the head of a Stark.

  “Well?” he roars. “Who brought these stale, disgusting pastries into my table read?”

  I gulp my fear down and slowly raise my hand.

  His eyes widen. “Of course it was you. Where did you get these from?”

  “They’re from the café,” I say, my voice quiet. “Here on the lot.”

  “Your incompetence just hit a new level,” he says as he wipes crumbs off his hands. “If you knew anything, you would know that we use Bluebird Bakery in Burbank for our pastries. Why are you even here? You can’t even get a simple task like picking up baked goods right. You’re useless. Get out. And take these bullshit excuses for food with you.” He throws his half-eaten Danish at me, hitting me in the chest. Trembling, I scoop the rest of the pastries into the bags and run out of there as fast as I can.

  On my way out the door, I bump into Shrupty. I can’t even look at her, I’m so shaken up.

  “What the hell was that about?” she asks. My voice fails me, so I try to give her a look that says “don’t ask” as I shuffle past. She takes me by the elbow, gently, so I can’t run away. “Bex? Was someone just screaming at you?”

  “It’s fine,” I say. “Part of the job. Sorry, I gotta go.”

  She tries to talk to me some more, but I’m afraid that if I stay any longer, I’ll cry. I dump the pastries in the trash and escape to the nearest bathroom, where I stay until I can breathe again.

  When I finally emerge, the table read is over and everyone is getting back to work. I creep onto the set like a skittish mouse, strategically walking alongside clothing racks as people from wardrobe push them around. When I get inside the soundstage, I stand behind set walls and props and monitors until I’m sure the coast is clear. Malcolm is nowhere to be found. Thank god.

  Alyssa is talking to the director about the scene they’re getting ready to film. Jane is a cowriter with Andy on this week’s episode, so they’re both sitting in their chairs, ready to roll. I stretch my neck and shake out my shoulders, trying to physically release the anxiety that is crushing me like a boa constrictor. Then I walk over to Jane, putting on my best Everything Is Fine smile.

  “There you are,” she says. She smiles like she’s happy to see me, and my shoulders relax a little. “I was worried when you weren’t at the table read. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” I lie.

  Andy leans forward to talk to me. “I hear Mal ripped into you pretty bad.”

  My stomach twists itself into a knot, but I try to laugh it off. “I’m fine.”

  Jane touches my arm. “I’m sorry. He’s in a mood today for some reason. Just ignore him.”

  Why is it that when assholes act like assholes, everyone else just has to ignore it? It doesn’t make him less of an asshole. It just gives him the power to take it up a notch.

  Jane pulls an envelope out of her folder and hands it to me. “Could you please run this over to the mail room?”

  “Sure,” I say, then take the envelope and leave the soundstage.

  “Bex!” a voice calls from behind me as I walk through the lot. I know it’s Shrupty before I even turn around. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  She speed-walks over to me, carrying a coffee from the café. “Did you get my texts?”

  I vaguely remember my phone buzzing in my pocket while I was melting down in the bathroom. I didn’t want to check my phone in case it was my mom scolding me for not calling her like I said I would. “I must have missed them. Sorry.”

  “As long as you’re okay,” she says. Then she holds the coffee out to me. “Here. I, um, brought you a coffee. As a thank-you fo
r staying up all night helping me rehearse.”

  I’m so grateful, I could cry. “Thank you so much. You have no idea how much I need this.” We linger for a moment, smiling at each other. “Um. Do you want to walk with me?” I hold the letter up. “I need to take this to the mail room. Intern duties.”

  She beams at me. “I’d love to.” I’ve never seen anyone more excited to deliver mail. It’s kind of sweet.

  “So,” I say, trying to come up with conversation. “How was the table read?”

  Shrupty shrugs. “I think it went okay? I’ve never done one before, so I have nothing to compare it to. But that Malcolm guy was pissed about something, so everyone was super tense.”

  I shake my head. “He’s such a tyrant.”

  “But,” she continues, “Will lightened the mood with some jokes. And then he invited everyone to his birthday party this Saturday.”

  Dammit. I missed out on an invite to a star-studded celebrity bash.

  “He said his boyfriend is throwing him a huge party,” she explains. “Will doesn’t know anything about it except that it’s on Saturday at eight P.M., at some warehouse in the Valley.”

  “Aww, man,” I moan. “That sounds so cool.”

  “Right?” Shrupty takes her hair out of the topknot it was in, letting it fall down over her shoulders. “Are you gonna go?”

  I frown. “I mean, I didn’t get an invite, so…”

  She nudges me playfully with her shoulder. “You could come with me?”

  “Oh.” I try not to smile, but I can’t help it. “Really?”

  Shrupty looks away shyly. “You could be my date. If you want?”

  I inhale sharply. My heart pauses, like it’s listening, waiting to hear what my answer will be. “I’d love that.”