by Jen Wilde
“Hey, Mama,” I say.
“What’s wrong?” she asks instantly.
I scoff, because what isn’t wrong at this point? “I miss you so much.” I choke back the wave of tears that threatens to spill over. “I’m so sorry I haven’t called. I’m sorry I haven’t replied to your texts. I’m sorry I haven’t taken the time to talk to you enough since I left. I’m just … so sorry.”
“Oh, honey,” she says. “I miss you, too. The house has been so quiet without you. Your aunt Laura and I don’t know what to do with ourselves.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling like the worst daughter in the world. “I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you for saying that,” she says. “I thought you’d forgotten about me.” I hear her sniff back tears herself, and it breaks me. I start weeping like a child.
“No,” I wail. “Never. I think about you every day. I’ve just been so caught up in my own shit. But it won’t happen again, I swear.”
“I’m not asking you to call me every day,” she says, crying on the other end. “I just … I want to know you’re okay and you’re happy and safe. I want to know about LA and your writing and if you’ve made any new friends. I want to be part of your life.”
Oh god. My chest feels like it’s crumbling under the weight of heartache. “I want you to be part of my life, Mama. I want all that, too. Ugh, I’m the worst. I’m so sorry. I’ve been selfish, and you don’t deserve it.”
“Bex,” she says. “I understand more than you think I do. I know being out in the world and on your own for the first time is overwhelming and scary. But it’s no excuse for ignoring your family.”
“You’re right,” I say. “It won’t happen again, Mom. I promise.”
“Well,” she says, her tears lessening. “See that it doesn’t. Now, tell me, are you okay?”
I groan into the phone. “Everything is shit today, Ma. I want to come home.”
“Awww, pumpkin,” she says. “Tell me everything.”
And I do. Through choked-up monologues and in between gasps for air, I tell her the whole damn story—from Malcolm stealing my script, to fighting with Parker, right up to Shrupty throwing the rewrites in my face this morning.
I hear her sigh through the phone. “Baby girl. Why didn’t you tell me any of this until now?”
I ponder her question for a moment, trying to find the answer. It’s time to be honest with her, and with myself.
“Because I was trying to run away,” I say. “I thought the only way to succeed in LA was to forget about where I’m from and reinvent myself. I was embarrassed. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry I spent so many years wanting to get away from Westmill. But most of all, I’m sorry for feeling ashamed of us. I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like we weren’t good enough, or if I acted like I was better than you. I’m not better than you. I’m better because of you.”
She’s silent when I finish, and for a second I worry that our call got disconnected. “Mom?”
I hear a soft sniff and realize she’s crying again.
“I’m here, baby,” she says. “Thank you for saying all that.”
I take in a shaky breath. “There’s something else I need to say, Mama. I’m gay.”
She cries harder. My heart skips a beat. Oh god. Why is she crying?
“I’m crying because I’m happy,” she says, as though reading my thoughts. “I love you so so much, sweetie. And I’ll always love you and support you, and I’ll be here for you whenever you need me. But you gotta promise to call me more than once a month, you hear me?”
“Yes, Ma,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, do better.”
“Okay, Mama.”
“Now it’s my turn to tell you something,” she says. “There’s no way in hell I’m letting you quit this and come home. I worked too hard and you worked too hard to get this far and give up now.”
“But everything is so shitty right now.” I wipe my nose with my knuckles, sniffing loudly.
It’s like I can hear her shaking her head all the way from Washington. “Honey, sometimes life gets shitty. But you don’t roll around in the shit and whine. You’re not a pig. You pick yourself up, clean the shit off, and keep going.”
I chuckle at her analogy. She’s always had a way with words.
“This is what you’re gonna do,” she continues. “You’re gonna pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and give ’em hell. March back into that fancy-pants studio tomorrow and unleash holy hell on that Malcolm asshole. Then find a way to make things right with that girl of yours.”
“Shrupty,” I say.
“Right, Shrupty,” she says. “She sounds like a sweet kid, honey. Show her who you are and she’ll love you, no matter where you’re from.”
I pause to take a breath, then ask softly, “How did you know I like her?”
She laughs. “I’m your mom. I knew the moment you said her name.”
A wide, goofy smile spreads across my face. “I love you, Mom.”
“Love you, too, honey. Now, go get ’em, okay?”
“Okay,” I say, feeling life running through my veins again.
We end the call and I get to my feet, staring down the door again. I take in a deep breath and slide the key into the door. Turn, kick, turn, shove.
Click.
Finally, it opens.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The next day, I march back into Rosemount Studios just like my mama told me to, feeling like a new woman. I don’t know how yet, but I’m determined to save queer Lyla.
I’m walking to set when a tour bus rolls past me, packed with families and tourists on vacations to Hollywood. The tour guide’s voice booms through the speakers.
“Are there any Silver Falls fans here today?” she asks. Hands shoot up from the group. “Ah, good! We’re pulling up to the Silver Falls stage now. I believe they’re currently filming episode 612, and if you peek inside you might just catch a glimpse of some of the cast.”
The bus pulls to a stop ahead, and I listen as I walk up behind it. People in the group crane their necks to see through the stage doors.
“Oh my god,” a teen with dark hair and a nose ring says. I notice they’re wearing a Silver Falls T-shirt. “I can’t believe this is the actual SF set! I’m dying.”
Another teen snaps some photos on their phone. “Do you see anyone? Is Archer in there?”
A third teen rolls their eyes. “He’s probably sucking up to Will hard-core right now, after what he said in that video.”
“Seriously,” the teen with the nose ring adds. “How could he say that homophobic shit when Will is supposed to be his best friend?”
The teen snapping photos frowns. “I really don’t think he meant it, though. He was wasted.”
“Oh,” the third teen says, “he meant it. And now he’s ghosting on social media, hoping people will just forget about it. Not me, though. I’m mad as hell.”
They keep talking about it while the bus pulls away. If only they knew what was really going on behind those doors. They’re mad now, but if they knew Malcolm had changed the whole narrative of the show to manipulate them into liking Archer again, they’d riot.
Wait a second. I stop just outside the stage, an idea forming in my mind. If the fans knew this was happening, there’s no way they’d stand for it. Fandom is a powerful thing. If we all came together to protest Malcolm’s straight-washing, we could save Lyla.
I look around for somewhere relatively private, then head toward the grid of trailers. Once I’ve found a quiet spot between an empty trailer and the outside wall of the soundstage, I take a deep breath, then make my move.
My phone shakes in my hands as I nervously open the Silver Falls Instagram. Notifications come pouring in, and I realize that what I’m about to do could change everything. Once I light this fire, I won’t be able to control it. I could get burned. But if I don’t do it, nothing will change. So I clear my throat, open up the livestream, and light the matc
h.
“Hi, friends,” I say into the camera. “I’m Bex. I’m an intern here at Silver Falls.” I pause, suddenly having no idea what to say. The viewer count quickly rises into the thousands as I stare blankly at the screen. I let out a sigh and wipe a hand down my face.
“I don’t even know where to start,” I say. “But. I don’t know how much time I have before someone finds me, so I’m just going to say it. You all know from the hints we’ve been dropping lately that a new character is joining the show. Her name is Lyla, and she’s being played by Shrupty Padwal, who is the most amazing person I’ve ever met, and that’s one of the reasons I’m so pissed about what’s going on. We’ve also been dropping hints that Lyla is queer and has a potential romance with Sasha. At least, she was queer.” I hear footsteps approaching and quickly duck around the corner of the trailer as they pass. I wait a moment to make sure there’s no one around, then continue.
“Cut to yesterday morning,” I say, a little quieter than before. “And we all show up, ready to film Lyla’s first episode. But the showrunner, Malcolm Butler, has handed out new scripts. In these new scripts, not only is Lyla straight, but she’s passive, barely has any lines, and needs to be saved by Tom, who she then predictably falls for.” I roll my eyes. Almost one hundred thousand people are watching the stream now. No going back.
“The moment I found out that Lyla had been straight-washed,” I say, “I asked Malcolm why he did it, and he said—”
Just then, I see Dirk run past and skid to a stop when he sees me.
“Hey!” he calls. He starts storming toward me and I begin moving through the aisles of the trailer maze, trying to lose him.
I hear him shout, “I found her!” to someone and realize my time is almost up. I hurry to finish the livestream.
“He said”—I puff as I turn another corner—“it was because of the controversy surrounding Archer after his ‘straight pride’ speech—”
A door to one of the trailers opens in front of me, and I stop in my tracks to avoid slamming into it. Shrupty steps out of the trailer, holding her phone. My livestream is playing on her screen. When she sees me, she waves her arms at me.
“What are you doing?” she mouths at me.
I ignore her. “Malcolm rewrote Lyla into another in his long line of throwaway female characters whose sole purpose is to further the plot of the male character. And why? Because Archer felt threatened by queerness, and the showrunner is choosing to coddle him instead of actually listening to the voices of the people he hurt.”
Shrupty peeks around the corner of the trailer, keeping watch while I wrap it up.
“He flipped the script and gave Archer the romance to repair the damage. Malcolm Butler erased a character’s sexuality to save the reputation of a homophobe. And he thinks no one will care.”
Shrupty jumps back and looks at me with panic all over her face. “Dirk!” she mouths.
“But we are Lyla,” I say. “We can’t let him erase us.”
Just then, Shrupty snatches the phone off me and cuts the livestream off.
“Hey!” I say. “I was about to cut it.”
“You’re about to get cut if you don’t hide,” she says as she grabs me by the hand. “Come on.”
She pulls me into her trailer and locks the door, then she spins around and looks at me like she’s waiting for me to say something.
I shrug. “What?”
“What?” she yells, mimicking me. “That’s all you’re going to say? What the hell, Bex?” She keeps staring at me, her eyes wide in shock. “If this is your way of getting me to believe that you didn’t do the rewrites, then fine, I believe you.”
I fall back onto the couch, almost in disbelief that I actually went through with that. “I didn’t know what else to do. I can’t keep any more secrets.” I clutch at my shirt collar and tug at it, feeling like it’s choking me. “Ever since I got here I’ve been dodging the truth. It’s tearing me up inside. And this mess with Lyla and the straight-washing is something I just can’t keep quiet about.”
“I totally get that,” she says. “But you’re going to be in so much trouble with…” Her phone buzzes in her hand, and her eyebrows rise.
“What?” I ask.
“Entertainment Now just posted an article about your livestream,” she says. “It’s already going viral.”
“Good,” I say, feeling triumphant. “Maybe all this negative press will motivate Malcolm to take back his rewrites.”
“Or,” Shrupty says, putting her hands on her hips, “it’s going to motivate him to fire your ass.”
I push my fingers through my hair and lean back against the cushions. Someone knocks on the door, and Shrupty and I freeze. She lifts her index finger to her lips, telling me to shush, then walks over to the door.
I stay quiet as she puts on a smile and opens her door. “Yes?”
I hear Dirk’s voice. “Have you seen that intern?”
Shrupty tilts her head to the side. “Hmm, you’re going to have to be more specific?”
Dirk groans. I try to stamp out the panic rising in my chest.
“The intern,” he says. “Red hair, glasses, talks too much. You’re with her all the time.”
Talks too much? Screw this guy. I stand up, ready to talk his ear right off, but Shrupty holds a hand up to me behind the door.
“Haven’t seen anyone fitting that description,” Shrupty says before swinging the door closed and locking it again.
We wait for him to walk away, then Shrupty comes toward me and puts her hands on my shoulders.
“You need to chill,” she says. “You have this super-wild look in your eyes that’s freaking me out.”
“Sorry,” I say as I force myself back down on the couch. She’s right; I’m wound way too tight right now. I close my eyes and take in a slow, deep breath. “Do you ever have one of those days where you just feel like everything you’ve ever believed was a lie and everything you’ve ever dreamed about was built directly on top of those lies?”
Shrupty scoffs. “About once a week, yeah.”
“Okay. Phew.” I laugh sarcastically. “As long as it’s not just me.”
Shrupty sits next to me, her hair falling to one side. “Can I ask you something?”
I nod, and she drops her gaze to the floor. “What did you mean before when you said you’ve been dodging the truth?”
My stomach turns from nerves, but I’m done hiding parts of who I am from people I care about.
“I didn’t go to prom.”
She looks at me, her eyes narrowed. “Huh?”
I shift on the couch so I’m facing her. “At Will’s party, I told you I went to prom. But I didn’t. I worked the night shift at Sonic, where I worked every night. You won prom king. Well, the king and queen of my prom banned me from going because I wasn’t cool enough, then they showed up at Sonic after and threw fries at me. And even if I wanted to go, I had no money for a suit because I was saving up to come to LA for this internship.”
“Oh my god,” she says. “They threw fries at you?”
I nod. “You said your high school days were the best days. It wasn’t like that for me. Not by a long shot. High school was a nightmare. Those weren’t the best days of my life … these are. These days spent in the writers’ room and on set and with you … I’ve never been happier in my entire life. I’m doing work I love, I’ve made friends, I met you.” I pause, suddenly hit by the weight of what I’ve done. “And I’m probably about to lose all of it.”
Shrupty reaches out and takes my hand. “Not all of it. It doesn’t matter to me how rich you are or how popular you were in high school. Money isn’t that important.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “See, you say that, but it is. Money matters a lot, especially when you don’t have it. People love to talk about poverty like it’s romantic or grounding or”—I roll my eyes—“character building. But it’s stressful. It’s traumatic. It’s, like, ninety percent of why I’m so anxious all the time
. It’s the reason my mom is going to be working until she’s dead. Unless I can find a good job and earn enough to help her out.” I choke back tears.
Shrupty gently rubs my back, and her touch is the only thing holding me together. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”
I take my glasses off and wipe my eyes on the back of my hand. “I was embarrassed. I was ashamed of who I am and where I come from, but I’m not anymore. I worked my ass off to get to LA, and my mom worked her ass off her whole life to give me more opportunities than she ever had. That’s nothing to be ashamed of. I see that now.”
“See,” Shrupty says quietly. “That’s something I can relate to. My parents worked their asses off, too. They were immigrants who left their home and their families to come here and give me and my brother a different life. They’re wealthy now, but it wasn’t always that way for them. My mom studied for years in Mumbai and here in LA to get where she is now. And my dad worked three jobs while she was pregnant with me and getting ready to graduate. Even though my family is wealthy now, my parents have always hustled for it. Just like your mom hustles for you. You definitely shouldn’t be ashamed of that. You should be proud.”
My heart swells. Hearing her open up to me like that means the world. She’s trusting me with her story, just like I’m trusting her with mine.
“Thank you for telling me all that.” I notice the rewritten scenes on her coffee table, and I look Shrupty in her eyes. “I swear, I had nothing to do with the rewrites. It was all Malcolm.”
She pushes a loose strand of hair behind my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.
“You probably just nuked your internship to stop the rewrites,” she says. “So I believe you. But why did he put your name on the script?”
“Because I wrote the original version,” I say. “And he stole it. I confronted him about it, and we reached a compromise: I would get a writing credit on the final script. I would never have agreed to that if I’d known he was going to do this.”
Shrupty stands up and starts pacing back and forth. “This fucking guy.” She squeezes her hands into fists. “He can’t get away with this. He’s everything I hate about this fucking town. We need to do something.”