Going Off Script

by Jen Wilde

  He moves forward in his chair. “It’s more of a comment than a question. I just think this whole thing is excessive. When Mark was running this place, he never called me in for meetings with board members present. He stayed out of the trenches altogether. And he would’ve never called a board meeting with me, cast members, and an intern”—he raises his index finger—“who, by the way, was recently fired for making false accusations and leaking spoilers. I also want to point out that I told you months ago that I prefer not to take on interns, and this is exactly why.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Shrupty clenching her jaw, like she’s literally biting her tongue to stop herself from snapping at him. I take in a deep breath through my nostrils, knowing I need to bide my time. Everything he says just adds more fuel to the fire within me. But I want to do this right, without losing my temper.

  The board members all turn to me, but Ms. Randall doesn’t take her eyes off Malcolm.

  “Well,” she says to him. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not Mark. I wasn’t brought in to run this company the same way he or anyone else did it. I’m not afraid of the trenches. And to be honest, I did not want to have this meeting, but your show is falling apart, and it doesn’t seem like you’re doing anything to stop it, so here we are.”

  Malcolm crosses his arms over his chest. “Any problems on my show have been caused by one person and one person only.”

  Oh god. Here we go.

  Mr. Randall tilts her head to the side. “And who would that be?”

  Malcolm raises his hand and points directly at me, like a witness pointing to the defense in a courtroom. “That girl right there. I’m sure she won’t deny any of it, either.”

  Heat radiates through my whole body. Sweat runs down my back. I’ve never felt more uncomfortable or more vulnerable in my life. But I’ve also never been more angry. As I sit at the table, all eyes on me, preparing to defend myself against one of the most powerful men in Hollywood, I remind myself of my power. I am fury, and anyone who stands in my way will feel my wrath.

  “Bex,” Ms. Randall says. “Why don’t you explain your side of all this?”

  I nod. “Thank you.” I straighten in my chair and initiate eye contact with the people at the table. “First of all, I want to make it clear that I would never do anything to intentionally harm Silver Falls or any of the cast or crew. I love this show more than anything.”

  A couple of the men give me supportive smiles, others already look bored, and Malcolm rolls his eyes.

  “You have a funny way of showing it,” he says.

  Ms. Randall clears her throat. “You said your piece, Malcolm. Let her speak.”

  Malcolm leans back in his chair, raising his palms up innocently. I gather myself and continue.

  “I know Malcolm wants me to say it’s all my fault,” I say. “He wants me to say that I lied about everything. But I’m not a liar. And I won’t be silenced anymore. On the first day of my second week here, he took a script I had written, put his name on it, and handed it out in the writers’ room as his own. When I confronted him about it, he promised to give me a credit, and I let it go. But when I found out he rewrote the character of Lyla to be straight and gave her a romance arc with Archer to help smooth over his homophobia scandal, I had to speak up. After that, I was called into his office, where he and a lawyer tried to pressure me into signing an NDA. They wanted me to tell the world I lied and to support him and Archer. When I refused, he fired me on the spot.”

  Ms. Randall’s eyebrows rise. I pause to take a breath, realizing I may have been talking a little too fast. I’d been avoiding Malcolm’s gaze through my whole speech, and when I glance over at him, his face is red with anger. He knows now that cornering me on set didn’t scare me. Suddenly, I’m hit with a wave of anxiety, and all I want to do is run out of the room and never come back. But I hold firm, digging my fingers into my thighs and my feet into the carpet.

  “Wow,” Ms. Randall says. “That’s a lot of new information.”

  “It’s all lies,” Malcolm says, surprising no one. He throws his arms in the air. “She launched a hate campaign against me and Archer Carlton that has damaged our reputations and the show’s success.”

  “A hate campaign?” Alyssa asks, her nose scrunched up in disgust. “Seriously?”

  Malcolm scoffs and shakes his head. “You’re part of it.” He turns to Ms. Randall while pointing his finger at Alyssa. “She’s part of it! They all are.”

  Ms. Randall holds a hand up to silence him. She opens her mouth to say something, but one of the suits interrupts her.

  “In all fairness to Mal,” he says. “He’s been showrunner for two seasons, and no one has ever complained about him before.”

  All the board members chime in then, like a chorus line of mansplaining.

  “I’ve always found him to be a great guy,” one says.

  “No complaints here,” another adds.

  “I’ve known him for years,” one of the golfers says with a Cheshire grin. “We go way back. Never had an issue.”

  Malcolm smacks a hand on the table, like he’s been vindicated. “Thank you.”

  Shrupty and I both roll our eyes. Ms. Randall watches from the end of the table, waiting patiently for the Ping-Pong game of ass-kissing to stop.

  “It seems obvious to me,” the guy next to Malcolm says, “that the troublemaker in this room is not Malcolm. He’s a good guy.” Then he pats him on the back.

  I want to laugh. Just let out a full-blown belly laugh, right in their faces, to show them how ridiculous and predictable they’re being.

  “So,” Malcolm says. “I think we’re done here. If you’ll excuse me, I have a show to run.” He stands up from the table. But Ms. Randall is not having it.

  She clears her throat. “Excuse me. I say when we are done.” He glares at her, but she matches it with her own and he sits down, defeated.

  There’s a knock on the door, and Jane pokes her head into the room. “Oh, sorry.”

  Ms. Randall’s face softens, and she waves Jane inside. “Everything okay?”

  “Um.” Jane’s brow furrows as she registers all the faces in the room, then she turns her attention back to Ms. Randall. “I just wanted to double-check your notes on this episode, but I can come back.” She turns to leave, but Ms. Randall calls her name.

  “Take a seat,” she says, gesturing to the last available chair, across from me. “I could use your perspective on this whole mess.” Then she stands up, fingers poised on the table, and looks over the board. “These are serious complaints that have been brought forward,” she says. “And with all due respect to the board, allegations like these should not be swept under the rug or dismissed just because you think he’s ‘a good guy.’” She shrugs, ignoring the sighs from the board members. “Look, a lot of people in this industry have been held accountable for their bad behavior, but we all know there are so many more who still get away with it. And this is exactly how it happens.”

  Malcolm shakes his head. “I see how it is.” The floor shakes under me, and I realize it’s from him tapping his foot nervously under the table. He’s scared. “Guilty until proven innocent, huh? Guys like me always get bad rap in the court of public opinion.”

  “No,” Ms. Randall says. “That is not what I’m saying—”

  Once again, the verbal Ping-Pong game erupts. I try to interject, to tell them I have receipts and evidence to back up my allegations. But Malcolm’s defense team is louder. Shrupty, Alyssa, and Will try to speak up, too, but they’re ignored. Jane sits back with wide eyes, looking totally lost. It’s like our side of the table is completely invisible.

  I fantasize about leaping onto the table, standing over Malcolm, and screaming in his face. I imagine myself getting right up in his face and tearing him to shreds, intimidating him like he’s done to me ever since the day we met. In a world with no consequences, I’d let my fury take over and flip the whole damn table.

  But the only people w
ho get to live in a world without consequences are men like those sitting in this room. That stops now.

  If they won’t listen to my voice, fine. I’ll give them a voice they’ll respond to, one they’ll have no choice but to listen to—Malcolm’s.

  I unlock my phone and open the video Shrupty and I saved. Then I hold it up so everyone can see it, turn the volume up as loud as it can go, and hit play.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  “How much will it take to keep you quiet?” Malcolm’s voice comes through crystal clear, and the room falls silent.

  I swallow hard when I hear my own voice. “Quiet about what?”

  “Everything,” the video continues. “If you can go into this meeting with Randall right now and deny it all—the script stealing, straight-washing Lyla, asking you to sign an NDA—I’ll give you whatever you want. Name your price.”

  I watch Malcolm as his world crumbles around him right in front of his eyes. Ms. Randall sits back in her chair slowly, like she’s in shock.

  “This is a fake!” he yells. The guy next to him puts a hand on his shoulder and shakes his head at him, and Malcolm shuts up.

  “Why do you have to be so difficult?” The video keeps playing. “Just tell me what the fuck you want so I can move on with my life!”

  “You know what I want,” my voice says. I sound much stronger than I felt. “Rewrite Lyla to be gay. That’s the Lyla I created, that’s the Lyla Shrupty signed on to play, and that’s the Lyla fans want and deserve. Give the fans what they want. Do the right thing.”

  Malcolm drops his face in his hands as everyone listens to him threatening me.

  “When are you gonna learn that right and wrong don’t matter in Hollywood? All that matters is who has the most power, and that’s me. So if you’re not going to play nice, neither am I. You either go into that meeting and say what I want you to say, or not only will I ruin you, I’ll ruin your pretty little girlfriend, too. All it takes is a phone call, and bam, Shrupty will be blacklisted. Is that what you want?”

  Figuring that’s all the evidence they need, I stop the video and place my phone on the table. No one says a word for a moment. It’s like the air has been sucked from the room.

  Shrupty rests a hand on my thigh, squeezing it lightly in support.

  Ms. Randall sits perfectly still in her chair, back straight and lips pursed. She looks mad, and I hope to god my plan doesn’t backfire and get me in even worse trouble than I’m already in.

  “Bex,” she says. “When was that video taken?”

  “This morning.”

  She nods, then turns to Malcolm. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

  He gestures to me. “She obviously coaxed me into saying all that. That girl has been trying to destroy me ever since she walked into my writers’ room.” No one utters a word. Malcolm searches the faces of the board members for assistance, and they won’t even look at him. His face reddens. He leans over to see Jane down at the end of the table. “Jane, come on. Back me up here. You know the truth.”

  “Yes,” Jane says, glancing at me. “I do. And I’m afraid if he keeps running the show, it’s going to collapse.”

  Malcolm jumps to his feet. “What?!”

  Jane doesn’t even flinch. She ignores Malcolm’s antics and looks straight at Ms. Randall. “I’ve been here since season one, episode one. I went from an assistant to staff writer to story editor to exec producer over my time here. I was even offered the role of showrunner but turned it down because I didn’t think I was ready. But that was a mistake. A mistake I’ve regretted more and more since Malcolm came on as showrunner instead. I firmly believe the recent dip in ratings is because of Malcolm’s poor decisions and even worse leadership. And, like Bex, I’ve had scripts stolen by Malcolm, too. Three so far, all of which I can prove were originally mine.”

  I have the urge to leap onto the table again, but this time to hug Jane.

  Will leans forward. “I agree with Jane.” Ms. Randall gestures for him to continue, and he does. “Look, I tried to just sweep it under the rug. I thought letting Mal do his whole chest-thumping routine was standard, as long as the show goes on, you know? But ever since Malcolm took over the show, everyone’s on edge. No one wants to cross him in case he blows up. Coming to set every day used to be exciting; we all felt like family. But now everyone is walking on eggshells, too afraid to say anything.”

  “Alyssa, Shrupty,” Ms. Randall says. “Do you feel the same way?”

  They both nod. Alyssa folds her arms over her chest. “Personally, I’ve felt ignored and dismissed by Malcolm ever since I started here. Finding out he sacrificed the first queer romance on Silver Falls to protect Archer was the last straw.”

  Ms. Randall sighs, and her shoulders relax. “Thank you, everyone. I think I’ve heard—and seen—everything I need to.”

  Malcolm grits his teeth, seething.

  “This is a witch hunt. So I get angry once in a while—so does everyone. I’m not here to make friends, I’m here to get a show done every week, and I’ve been doing that.”

  Ms. Randall shakes her head. “Not this week you haven’t. Frankly, this whole season has been fraught with problems, long before Bex arrived.” She pokes the table with her index finger. “I vowed when I took this job that every show I oversee will be a safe space for all the staff. These scare tactics you seem to employ only damage the show and the network, and we end up here, sitting around a table arguing over who said what and did this or that. I don’t have time to be sitting here lecturing you all or playing mediator. That’s not my job. But part of your job, as a showrunner, is to keep things rolling and make sure everyone is feeling heard and, most important, that they feel safe coming to work every day. Clearly, you haven’t done that. In fact, it seems to me that you’ve done the opposite.”

  She looks around the table. “Gentlemen of the board, I propose a vote. All in favor of terminating Malcolm’s contract immediately, raise your hands.”

  Ms. Randall raises her hand. Shrupty’s arm shoots up like she’s in school, a look of fierce defiance on her face. I raise my hand, too, and so do Alyssa, Will, and even Jane. Our votes may only be a symbolic gesture, but it feels important, and I can’t deny how sweet it is to be here to witness Malcolm’s comeuppance. Around half of the board members raise their hands, while others seem to hesitate. The guy next to Malcolm cringes and shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

  “Brad,” Malcolm pleads. “Come on, man. You know me.”

  Brad avoids eye contact as he reluctantly raises his hand, and the rest of the stragglers do the same.

  Malcolm slams his fists on the table, and I almost jump out of my skin.

  “This is bullshit!” he yells as he stands up so fast that his chair topples over.

  Shrupty and I hold hands under the table. I glance over my shoulder, noting the distance between us and the door.

  “Mal,” Brad says as he stands up and puts his hands on Malcolm’s shoulders. “Calm down, pal.”

  Ms. Randall presses the intercom on the table. “Call security. Now.”

  Malcolm shakes Brad off and shoves him, then directs his anger toward Ms. Randall. “That’s how it’s gonna be, Ruby? After everything I’ve done for this place?”

  Ms. Randall stands firm. “Yes.”

  He points at her. “I’ll sue you!”

  She shrugs. “People like you are always surrounded by whispered warnings, Malcolm. I’ll be opening an internal investigation into your conduct to turn the volume up on those whispers. So, if you want to sue, go ahead.”

  The same two security guards who escorted me off the premises the other day burst into the room.

  “Please escort Mr. Butler to his office to collect his things,” she says to them. “And make sure he leaves without causing a scene.”

  Brad pats Malcolm on the back. “Come on, bud. I’ll walk out with you.”

  But Malcolm shoves him for the second time. “Fuck off. Fuckin’ Judas.” Brad backs off, sh
aking his head.

  I sit frozen in my chair as the guards follow him out of the room. He continues ranting and raving in the hall as he leaves the building.

  I look around the table at all the shocked faces and catch glares from some of the board members. I can feel their resentment toward me growing by the second. To them, I’m probably just a troublemaking teen. I know how this goes; I’ll be labeled as “difficult,” and some of these men will make it near impossible for me to work in this town. But I did the right thing; I just need to remember that.

  Ms. Randall puts her hands on her hips and sighs. “Thank you, gentlemen. I won’t keep you any longer. Leave the rest to me.” The board members leave the room, and Ms. Randall turns her attention to our little group of misfits on the other end of the table. I swallow hard and launch into a rambling speech.

  “We never meant to cause you so much trouble,” I say, stumbling over my words. “We had to take a stand. Not just for us, but for all the Silver Falls fans who feel robbed of something they’ve been wanting for so long. Our methods might be … questionable, but I hope you can see now that we weren’t just causing trouble for the hell of it.”

  Alyssa nods. “It was trouble that needed to be made. Trouble that has made the fans feel seen and heard and included in the show like never before.”

  Shrupty scrolls on her phone and holds it out for us all to see. “Trouble that has gained over one million views, eighty thousand petition signatures, and inspired op-eds in Vogue and the New York Times. People want this.”

  Ms. Randall lifts her hands to quiet us down. “I know all that. And I’ve known about Malcolm’s disruptive behavior for over a month. But the board refused to even hear me out unless I could provide proof. You helped me do that today, so thank you.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief.

  “However,” she continues. “Consider this a warning. If you ever share anything about scripts publicly without permission, or go behind the studio’s back like that again, I’ll have no choice but to fire all of you. And please, come to me if you have any concerns about the people or environment you work with.”