Yet I’m motivated by my own self-preservation, which is at cross-purposes with all my training and values.
When I asked myself if Maslow, Jung, or Freud would ever perpetrate what I’m doing right now, the answer was no, never, under no circumstances, even for the purpose of research.
But what about Dr. Phil?
Pfft, in a heartbeat.
So that causes inner turmoil—do I want to be a psychologist who happens to be on television or do I want to be a television psychologist?
If I choose the latter, then I wonder if the rules shouldn’t be relaxed a bit.
“Cut!” calls Holthaus. He comes over to where I’m perched and eases down next to me. “Tabby, baby—that was incredible. I’m so proud of you. Whatever your doctor did worked.” To the rest of the crew, he calls, “It’s in the can!” The whole Skydeck, which is filled with cast and crew, begins to cheer.
Which means I’m not fired!
I glance over at Kassel, who’s conferring with a cameraman who isn’t Gary. (Like I’d trust Gary with a nickel, let alone my career.) He pumps his fist in victory—apparently the Push crew nailed the shot as well.
As I still have a couple of minutes before the jig is up, and for the entirely selfish reason of wanting to walk around in Tabitha’s superhero shoes for another moment, I find myself asking, “Do you want a take from a different angle?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Ego Has Landed
The episode airs on Thursday night, one week after having been filmed. The team had to do a crash edit to pull it all together, but Ruby and Faye made it happen.
I mean, after I made it happen.
(Yes, I’m giving myself affirmations again. I deserve them.)
Normally, the whole staff would stage an episode-watching party, but after everything that went down with Lance and Ashlee, and following the soft opening of Dr. Karen and the not-exactly-OCD hand washer’s episode, everyone’s understandably afraid to jinx tonight. I’d have invited Deva over, but she’s taking a mini-break at one of her other houses since we’re not shooting this week. As she completely saved my hide, I begrudge her nothing.
I’m just about to settle in on the couch to watch the episode when there’s a knock at my door. This is odd, because no one can enter without having been buzzed.
“Who is it?” I demand, my voice coming out sharper than usual.
“Yo, Dr. B! It’s Trevor and Bryce. Got something for ya!”
I open the door, and not only are the boys completely dressed, but they come bearing gifts: a bottle of whipped-cream-flavored vodka and a six-pack of sugar-free Red Bull.
“’S’like a housewarming dealie,” Trevor explains. “Only for your new show. Bought you sugar-free. You know, for health.”
I look at the guys, grinning from ear to ear, and then at each of their offerings. “That is really”—don’t say disgusting, don’t say disgusting, don’t say disgusting—“very sweet. Would you like to come in?”
“Naw, gots to go, playa,” Bryce explains. “Three-dollar Fireball shots at the Dark Horse and half-price apps, yeah! Gotta get my Thursday night on!”
“Well . . . thank you for this thoughtful gesture, and I won’t keep you.”
Trevor salutes and says, “Yeah, gratz, Dr. B!” They begin to clatter down the stairs when, as an afterthought, Trevor adds, “Next time your buddy Tabitha’s in town, maybe you give us the fresh hookup?”
“Sure thing.”
If my time with (and being) Tabitha Baylee taught me anything, it’s that she would absolutely jump on every semiliterate, inexplicably ESL frat boy who crosses her path.
Not.
I shut and lock the door behind them.
I glance at my whipped-cream vodka (why, God, why?) and sugar-free Red Bull, you know, for health. I’d likely drink paint thinner before allowing any of this near my lips, but I’m still oddly touched by the gesture. They certainly could have asked me for a favor without the sickly-sweet hooch and sugar-free rocket fuel.
I shove the libations into the hall closet. At some point I’ll regift this all back to them and they’ll never have been the wiser.
I grab the remote and sit down, but before I can even kick off my shoes, I hear the phone. I jump a little, as it’s so rare for my phone to ring, particularly with anyone with whom I’d like to speak. The sound is somewhat foreign between these four walls and echoes the length of the apartment.
Tentatively, I pick up. “Hello?”
A familiar voice comes on the line. “Hi, Reagan . . . it’s Bethany.”
“Bethany? Bethany Walker? Long time no talk.”
I’m not mad about hearing from my former marathon-training buddy after a whole summer. Rather, I’m pleasantly surprised. I thought our bridge had long since been burned.
Rather sheepishly, Bethany says, “Reagan, I know it’s been a while, but I saw that you’re on tonight and I just wanted to say congratulations and I’m sincerely happy for you.”
I perch on the corner of the couch. “Thanks, that’s very kind of you. With all the weirdness leading up to last week’s premiere, I’m thrilled that we’re finally starting to find our way.”
I don’t add that I’m delighted to not have been fired, as that’s no one’s business, regardless of how true it may be.
“Well, I’m definitely rooting for you. Anyway, I’m sure you’re busy, but I wanted to say hello. Um, listen—I’m doing an LSD this weekend”—meaning long, slow, distance run, as opposed to Lake Shore Drive or Timothy Leary’s drug of choice—“so give me a jingle if you’re up for joining.”
Huh. I’ve decided against doing the marathon this year, but it couldn’t hurt to step up my distance runs. “I’ll have to check my calendar, but pencil me in with a possible yes,” I say.
“Super! I look forward to it. See you soon!”
I find myself smiling.
“Sounds like a plan. Bye!”
Now, that’s both surprising and serendipitous. However, I don’t even have time to process our conversation when the phone rings again.
I’m less hesitant this time. “Hello?”
“Hey, Reagan, it’s Caroline. Saw the preview for your show and I thought, I haven’t spoken with Reagan forever. How are you?”
Caroline, rather Dr. Caroline Kenner, has a bustling North Shore practice where she specializes in working with teens. We met through a professional association a few years ago and we bonded over common philosophies. She’s the only other psychologist I’ve met who shares my reservations about pharmaceuticals, and she’s always on CNN advocating against overmedicating children.
“Everything’s great,” I reply.
Because at the moment? It really is.
“Kudos on the program,” she says. “Have you seen it yet?”
“I’m just sitting down to it now. I mean, I viewed the final cut in the edit bay, but there’s something so gratifying about watching it on television between the Taco Bell and State Farm commercials and all.”
On the WeWIN network, Push was always buffeted by low-budget ads for local carpet retailers and Life Alert buttons and Bumpits. Nothing says “big” like a name-brand soda commercial.
“Absolutely,” Caroline agrees. “I shan’t keep you, Reagan. I just hoped to say hello and to wish you well. Apologies for having been so swamped. It’s back-to-school season and all the parents want extra time to help their kids gird their loins for the coming year. I’m telling you, the bullies are buying my kids an Ivy League education. However, my schedule’s opening up, so please give me a ring when you’re free. I’d love to hear your thoughts on the book I’m working on—it’s about the overuse of psychotropic drugs in the Louisiana State foster care system.”
Sounds like somebody’s not considered Dr. Wack anymore!
&
nbsp; I enthusiastically reply, “That sounds fascinating! Let’s talk soon.” We lob a couple of dates back and forth and decide to meet up next week.
Well, isn’t this an interesting turn of events?
I should probably be suspicious of suddenly hearing from people, but if I’m to be perfectly honest, I’m not concerned about anyone’s motives. I’m tired of feeling ostracized and I’m grateful to be invited back into my friends’ lives. And if I had to perpetrate a small but effectual fraud with a movie star before they’d have me back? That’s a price I’m willing to have paid.
My phone vibrates and I read the incoming text:
Congratulations beautiful person! Knew it would all work out! Feeding Greater Chicago Ball @Metropolitan Club this Saturday—let Janie know if u want to be on the list! Besos, WW
I can feel a massive grin spread across my face. Wendy Winsberg, whom I haven’t heard a single word from since Hawaii, wants me at her charity event? Network must be an even bigger deal than I thought.
An infinitesimal part of me is angry about how she hung us out to dry, and yet, I’ll admit I adore being privy to her inner circle. I don’t hate appearing on the party pages of Chicago Nouveau magazine or rubbing elbows with the rest of the city’s glitterati. I make a mental note to call her assistant, Janie, in the morning.
I feel another buzz and glance down.
me and you at the bou?
I recognize Rhonda’s number—she’s a former U of C classmate and current neighbor. Funny, but I could have sworn she looked right through me in front of the coffee shop a couple of weeks ago. I thought she was being a megabitch, but now I wonder if she legitimately didn’t see me.
At the same time, my landline and cell phone begin to ring, and I can hear the incoming bing of e-mail on my laptop. This is crazy! Unsure of how to prioritize, I allow everything to go to voice mail.
This never happened when Push was on WeWIN.
Bzzt, bzzt.
gr8 job, girl!—S
Oh, my God! Sebastian’s watching the show? And thinking of me? Unbelievable! I’m not even sure of how to react. I feel like I’m finally moving on, and yet, the idea of him being in contact with me gives me butterflies in my stomach. What would it be like if he were to come crawling back to me?
My phones keep ringing. I scroll through the caller ID on my mobile and am pleased to note all the old friends and classmates who are suddenly back in touch. I imagine this is what it must have felt like to be popular in high school.
Which . . . don’t even get me wrong—I’m so proud of having graduated from Taylor Park. Yet I wonder how much more I’d have enjoyed the experience if I’d ever stopped studying long enough to eke out a minute of fun. Pep rallies, bonfires, homecoming dances—never made it to one of them. I wasn’t unpopular so much as I never even allowed the other students to give me that consideration.
I was always That Girl in the Library.
By the time second semester of my freshman year rolled around, people stopped even trying to invite me to events, confident I’d never attend.
Would I be a different person if I’d figuratively let down my hair?
Maybe some of the Taylor Parkers would have scoffed at my solidly middle-class status, our Bridgeport bungalow, and my blue-collar family, but surely there were others there on scholarships? In retrospect—and given the school’s commitment to academia—it stands to reason I could have found like minds in students who cared more for books than boys.
Perhaps this is one of the reasons I fell for Boyd so quickly? He and his friends instantly welcomed me into their social circle. Sure, the guys would tease me about bringing bags of books to the beach, but they were always respectful. And their girlfriends became my friends, sharing stories and seeking my counsel. It’s little wonder that I found myself so distracted.
My point is, would I be so eager to forgive those who dumped me so easily if I’d learned to be social earlier in life?
Of course, all I need to do to affirm my choices is look at Geri’s life. At St. Francis Xavier (where I guarantee she was accepted due to nepotism, not merit) she was the queen of all she surveyed. Despite not being particularly cute or academically gifted, she managed to rule her school.
And where is she now?
Standing in a pile of someone else’s hair.
Pretty sure I win.
Bzzt.
watchin ur show! pls pls let me cut some lyers in ur hair, at least aroun ur face. Is 2 severe. wll stll b bouncy, but wll have + lift/- heft XOX, ur lil sis
Leave it to Geri to be the world’s biggest killjoy. She can’t just be happy for me. It’s like she goes out of her way to find a way to criticize me. Her jealousy is all consuming. And like I’d ever let her touch my hair. The last thing I need is more lift, and is she honestly one to lecture me about too much heft? Really? The Stay Puft Marshmallow Sis?
And yet my folks wonder why we can’t get along.
Bzzt.
Don’t be angry that Geri gave me your digits, Ray. Listen, if the show proves too overwhelming, you’re not obligated to proceed. Your goal was to be a therapist, not a pitchman for Ford F150s. Be true to you.
Oh, Boyd—why couldn’t you be a tiny bit more driven? Trade in your board for a briefcase and we could be great together.
Until then? Delete.
Bzzt.
Halo, Rogain Barkeep!
Deva has the damnedest time texting with her massive appendages. When I hear from her, I have to try to interpret what she means, and not what she actually types.
R ur phonies ringaling?
Are your phones ringing?
A ward of car Sean—
I’m guessing . . . a word of caution?
UR reel fronds r tons how spork tooth
So, my real friends are the ones who spork tooths?
Noted.
Not understood, but noted.
As I’m in too fine a mood to try to interpret Deva’s cryptic text, I silence everything and arrange myself on the couch to watch the first episode of my new, fresh start.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Ancient Chinese Secret
“Do I know you?”
I’m done playing the fake-humble fame game. My status as Push’s breakout star is totes legit.
According to Bryce and Trevor, that is.
According to Ma, my newfound status is no excuse to skip Thanksgiving with the family. Argh.
Regardless, instead of being coy or retiring when approached by a fan, I’ve come to embrace my well-deserved notoriety with open arms. With my most brilliant, freshly whitened smile, I turn to the fellow Whole Foods patron and look her in the eye.
“I’m Dr. Reagan Bishop.”
“Oh, my God, I knew it!” she squeals, and I beam.
This must be what it feels like to be Ol’ Rat Nasty.
(Minus being pelted with drawers.)
Yet while I’m grinning beatifically, I can’t help but notice her cart is overflowing with wine, bread products, and gelato, which is so not the point of shopping here. All those carbs make me feel nauseous. What’s with her bushel o’ crap? Don’t others care to take advantage of the pesticide-free produce and bulk-bin chia seeds, and if they’re into that sort of thing, meat classified by its level of animal-centeredness? Otherwise, why wouldn’t they just hit Trader Joe’s or Dominick’s?
However, I’m not judging her, because she’s a fan.
Although I bet her fridge is filled with diet soda.
Filled.
Which is none of my business.
She probably enjoys a refreshing Diet Coke while watching me on television.
All I’m saying is I hope she enjoys type 2 diabetes.
She gushes, “I Need a Push is the best, the absolute best! My
friends and I love your show! I’m Cassie, by the way—hi! Nice to meet you! Yo, Jessica! Jess! Come here!”
A woman with an armload of tortilla chips, presumably Jessica, rushes over to join us. She’s cute in that generic, Big Ten–grad, wide-hipped, midwestern way, with straight, shiny hair and a statement-piece necklace, topped with a utilitarian, all-weather North Face jacket. The second the icy Canadian winds start rolling in off the lake in late September, Chicagoans forswear fashion for function. Right now the coats in this store are running about thirty-five percent North Face, twenty percent Mountain Hardwear and Arc’teryx, and fifteen percent Patagonia, with the rest divided between layered hoodies for the trust-funded hipsters and fur for the I’m-so-urban soccer moms who’ll remain Team City until the first time someone breaks into their Lexus SUV, at which point they will run like scalded apes to the friendly confines of Wheaton.
“Ohmigod,” Jessica exclaims, “what you did with Tabby Baylee? We were weeping! We’ve loved her ever since she was on the CW? In that show? About the college girl? Who was secretly a member of Homeland Security? Remember? The best! Is she nice? Is she so awesome in person? Are you friends? Is she on your Facebook? Do you guys text?”
I offer an enigmatic reply. “Tabitha is a superhero, and I mean that in every respect.”
I’m forever in Tabitha’s debt because she proved how easy it would be for us to swoop in and make the switch. At no point during our swap did she suspect anything, largely due to Deva’s ministrations.
Deva prepped Tabitha, telling her the three of us were going to do some creative visualization. Tabitha and I sat next to each other and Deva stood behind us, ostensibly to “help harness the negative energy.” But really, she just needed to be positioned in a way where she could slip the matching amulets around our necks at the same time.
When I asked Deva about the origins of the amulets, she replied, “Ancient Chinese secret,” and it took me a moment to realize she was serious and not just quoting a classic detergent commercial.
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