by Amanda Heger
“It was a small thing,” he lied. “Some of the Who’s Got the Coconut people—”
“That fucking show. You know how many prizes Sammy Samuelson takes home with him every week? One time—”
“James.” Julia put a hand on the host’s arm. “Focus.”
“I hate that son of a bitch. And what’s this I hear about giving Marisol tickets? Why would you torture anyone with that stupid show?”
“James. James.” Julia set her jaw. “Back to business remember?”
“Fine.”
“We only taped a few minutes yesterday before she left,” Julia said. “The paparazzi came on a bit stronger than we thought. Scared her off.”
Stronger than they’d thought? “What does that mean?” Evan demanded.
Julia ignored him. “We were thinking of scrapping the segment, James. It’s not working anymore. It’s getting too complicated.” The look she threw Evan’s way could have bent nails.
“Did you or did you not just read the email from the executive idiots?” James looked at her like she’d just suggested they set the entire show on fire and run away. “They want the Lady Killer. The Lady Killer fans are the reason we’ve got a two-day reprieve.”
Julia cleared her throat. “James, it’s only two days. I don’t think… Maybe it’s time—”
“Nope. It’s not time until the fat lady yodels.” James shoved the computer into Julia’s hands. “Writers’ room, now. Someone bring me every bit of footage we haven’t used from the Lady Killer stuff.” Somehow, the network’s email had reenergized him. Like that little, simultaneous bit of taunt and encouragement had been exactly what he needed to care again.
“Evan? Where’s Evan?” James asked.
Evan raised his hand, even though he stood only a few feet away from James’s towering form.
“Get ready to grovel. You’re going on the show tonight.”
• • •
Another full day of workshops in the books. Another day of suits and heels and fake smiles. Finally, without the constant pull of the show, Marisol could focus every last drop of her energy on the conference. Put every brain cell to work on the mammoth job of getting this grant. Of making connections. Of making her mother proud.
And she did.
Mostly.
A handful of times her mind took off on its own, catching wind of something mildly funny. Something that could be spun into a funny skit or become the seed of an idea. And before she could stop, her brain ran with it—mentally pitching the idea to Evan.
Each time her brain went down that bumpy route, Marisol fought it back. She imagined the pain of telling her mother she’d lost the grant instead. She imagined how angry her brother would be when he found out what they’d been keeping from him. She imagined never going on the brigades again, losing touch with that last remnant of her family’s history.
The love of her job, her family, the importance of her work—all were more important than a television show, no matter how much she loved that feeling of creation. Of molding something from the ground up and putting it on display.
“And that is why we must find new ways of engaging children with diabetes and their communities.” She allowed herself a small smile in the mirror as she gestured toward the sign on her left—a giant poster board with statistics about the number of children diagnosed with diabetes who also lacked access to refrigeration for their insulin.
Her stomach rumbled, a reminder that she needed to check her own blood sugar levels and grab something to eat. After an hour and a half of rehearsing, her brain was beginning to leak from her ears. She stuffed her notes for tomorrow in a bag, slipped on a pair of shoes, and made her way downstairs. As the elevator dinged from floor to floor, she decided to take advantage of the perfect California evening and make her way to the CityWalk. Getting out of the hotel, and away from her fellow conference goers, even for a little while, would give her brain a chance to recharge.
“Excuse me.” A woman dressed from head to toe in Hilltop Hotel gear called out from the reception desk.
“Me?”
“Hi.” The woman adjusted the red scarf around her neck so all the gold Hs stood in perfect alignment. “I’m not really supposed to do this, but” —she leaned in conspiratorially— “do you think you could follow me? Just for thirty seconds.”
Marisol’s skin felt two sizes too small for the rest of her body. Suffocating. Calm down.
Certainly the hotel staff wouldn’t be more gawkers. They probably had people who were actually famous in all the time. Maybe they just needed her to confirm her checkout time or something. “Can I come by later? I have an appointment.” She didn’t mention the appointment was with a margarita the size of her head.
“Not really.”
Marisol ignored all the warning sirens sounding in her mind and followed the woman. The clerk’s shoes had tiny Hs on the backs of the heels, and Marisol stared at them as they snaked around the reception desk, past a giant fish tank, and into a small room off the main lobby.
“It’s only a few questions,” the clerk said. “Will only take a minute.”
But once Marisol saw what was in store, she knew it would take less than a minute. Because no way was she staying to watch this debacle unfold. It had been weird and horrible enough in person; watching it replayed on television was like dumping an entire canister of salt into the wound. Yet, her feet refused to move, and her eyes refused to turn away from the giant TV in the center of the room.
“Sources say the stress of Hollywood was simply too much for the couple to withstand.” A reporter with perfect hair and perfect teeth and perfect skin stared right into the camera. “What a shame.”
The reporter saluted the camera before the shot faded. And then Marisol was staring at herself on the screen. And then Evan. And then at herself smiling at Evan. And then it was a whole montage of their skits, edited together to make them look completely, utterly, one hundred percent smitten with one another.
No wonder everyone is so confused.
No wonder I am so confused.
“Here she is!” The hotel clerk pointed to Marisol, and every person gathered around the big screen TV turned in their direction. “Now, I think we all know things aren’t always as they appear on television. So let’s be kind in our questions, yeah? And when they hand you that little card upon checkout, keep in mind this unique Hilltop Hotel experience.”
Before Marisol could fully comprehend what was happening, hands and questions shot into the air.
“Who’s the other guy?”
“Did you intend to make Evan fall in love with you?”
“Are you here illegally?”
It was the jolt her feet needed to move. She did an about face and marched through the lobby, ignoring the voices following her. Ignoring their questions as they replayed in her mind. Ignoring the memory of Evan’s grin as they huddled together onscreen.
That last shot. The one where they looked like they might implode if they didn’t kiss. That wasn’t taken from their sketches. That was yesterday, before the cameras had started rolling.
Or so she’d thought.
She took off, not caring that she probably looked like a lunatic—arms swinging madly as she propelled herself as far away from the television as she could. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized she’d been holding out hope. A feather light hope that what she and Evan had was real.
Marisol stopped in a dim hallway, where she was the only person in sight. The smell of food wafted by. Cheese. Fresh bread. Strawberries. She ignored her growling stomach and pulled out her phone.
She scrolled until she found Evan’s number and pressed call. Time to settle this once and for all. She’d demand he tell people the truth about what happened. She’d demand the show leave her alone. She’d demand—
“We’re sorry. The person you have called is no longer accepting calls or their mailbox is full. Please try again at another time.”
Fine. She’d send him a text and d
emand he return her call.
Mid-demand, the phone vibrated in her palm.
Incoming call. Madre.
Her fingers hit ignore so fast Marisol barely had time to comprehend what she’d done. She’d call her back later, after she was done demanding—
Incoming call.
This time a phone number flashed across the screen. A phone number Marisol recognized, but one that belonged to someone who didn’t know this throwaway American phone existed.
Felipe.
Her phone clattered to the floor, and spiderweb cracks crawled across the tiny screen. The battery fell from the back and slid along the floor, finally disappearing beneath a nearby cabinet.
“Damn, that sucks.” A waiter carrying a tray of wine glasses and food paused beside her as she picked up the phone. “I know a guy who fixes—”
She waved him off. “It is fine. Better than fine.”
“Ah, a Luddite, perhaps.” He brought the tray down to her reach. “Here. Cheers.”
Marisol took the wine. And then two of the cream cheese and salmon appetizers. “Cheers.”
“You better hurry. I think they’re about to start the first movie.”
That’s when she saw the sandwich board sign, taking up half the hallway. DELLA SIMMONS DOCUMENTARY FILM FESTIVAL THIS WAY. The conference must have spent half their budget on those oversized monstrosities.
Marisol glanced over her shoulder. She could chance going back through the lobby, say a prayer that the nosy hotel clerk and the legion of nosy gossipmongers wouldn’t notice her. Or, she could sit in the dark for an hour with free food and drinks, while she pretended none of this had happened.
She hit a few buttons on her insulin pump and drained the last of her wine. Courage gathered, she tossed the remnants of her cell phone into the nearest garbage can and flagged down the waiter. “Another, please. You know what? I will do it.” She took the two remaining glasses from his tray and poured one into the other. “Gracias.”
The lights had already gone down by the time Marisol slipped into the makeshift theatre. People filled almost every seat, and she shuffled her way toward an opening in the far corner of the room. “Excuse me. Sorry. Excuse me.” She juggled her glass of wine and tiny plate stacked with appetizers until she could safely flop into her seat.
“Welcome to the third night of the First Annual Della Simmons Film Festival.” The lights rose on the stage to reveal a man in a stiff tuxedo and shiny shoes. His hair had that Elvis Presley look. He pranced across the stage with his skinny microphone. “Tonight’s feature film is from one of our three Della Simmons Grant finalists. And I have to say, the ladies behind this organization have made quite a splash this week. I’m proud to show you People United for Body Euphoria’s documentary, Capoeira’s Children.”
Marisol shoved a cracker into her mouth and chased it with a swallow of wine. Maybe she could pretend like the whole So Late It’s Early thing hadn’t happened, but apparently the universe wasn’t about to let her forget about the grant. Or that she was likely losing it to the Pubes. “Great.”
“Shhh.”
The heavy curtain parted, and the screen burst with color. A hundred houses appeared on a steep hillside, boxy and sitting one on top of the other. A dog barked somewhere offscreen, and a narrow path wound its way between the houses. A favela.
“Three years ago, People United for Body Euphoria’s founder, Gloria Chambers, found herself in Brazil, staring up at the slums.” The voiceover coming from the speakers reminded Marisol of a used car salesman. “And though she felt helpless against the crushing poverty, this American knew she had more in common with the Brazilian people than met the eye.”
Marisol took another swig of wine as the movie cut to a shot of one of the Pubes in a silent dance studio. The woman had donned spandex from head to toe and rolled across the screen in some sort of slow motion breakdance.
“Capoeira!” Drumbeats rang out from every speaker, and Marisol jumped in her seat, sloshing wine onto her lap.
At first Marisol thought she’d had too much to drink. Or maybe time really was slowing. But the drums kept pounding, louder and louder. The woman onscreen kept dancing. And fighting. Or dance fighting? Whatever it was, the woman kept doing it. For at least five minutes, Marisol watched this display in both confusion and—not that she would ever admit it—admiration.
As suddenly as it started, the dancing ended, and the favela filled the screen once again.
“We’re here today to find our first group of Capoeira warriors!” Pube One spoke right into the camera as she adjusted her giant safari-style hat. “Together, I know we can make a difference in these kid’s lives. Oh! Look.”
The camera followed her as she chased after a chubby kid in a red T-shirt. And then another, similarly overweight little girl with pigtails, and another boy—this one with cheeks so pinchable Marisol wanted to reach straight through the screen and hug him. In the span of a minute, the documentary showed her chasing a dozen children—all of who looked horrified when this crazy white lady, dressed like she was headed to the Serengeti, grabbed them by the arm and began yelling in stilted Portuguese.
Marisol hated the Pubes, but she had to hand it to them: submitting a mockumentary like this had been a bold move. The way people often stomped into—and over—foreign customs and lands, was something she’d seen hundreds of times. Even good people sometimes ended up hurting more than they helped.
“Childhood obesity,” the announcer said. “It doesn’t know skin color or religion or socioeconomic status. But it does fear one thing: Capoeria!” Onscreen the chubby children began learning to dance fight, and Marisol didn’t bother to stifle her laugh as they toppled over like dominoes.
She laughed even harder when the time-lapse videography showed the children losing weight, their faces morphing into as they lost their last layers of baby fat. And she was still giggling when the lights came up.
Everyone around her stared in complete silence.
The tight-lipped woman beside her sneered. “I don’t see the humor.”
Apparently, neither did anyone else. The room burst into applause, and two rows up someone wiped a tear from her cheek.
“No way.” Marisol’s whisper floated into the brimming cheers. This was her competition? The grant money would be used to kidnap poor children—children who likely didn’t have access to electricity or indoor plumbing or regular meals—and make them lose weight through dance fighting?
“What is wrong with you?” The woman next to her adjusted her salt and pepper bun. “Obesity is no laughing matter.”
“I know. It is a very serious problem, I am sure.” Marisol was at a loss.
“Well then you shouldn’t be laughing.” The woman straightened a little taller just so—Marisol suspected—she could look down her nose. “Obesity is very big right now.”
• • •
On his first day, Evan had stumbled upon a wall of signatures and doodles in the green room. Classic television giants had scribbled their names across entire blocks. Rock stars had written expletives Evan had never before—and never since—seen. One child star had stuck an old lump of bubblegum to the wall, which set off a chain reaction of disgusting bubblegum lumps in every artificial color of the rainbow.
Evan was still in awe of the sheer amount of history contained in that single swath of cement. The studio’s history, long before it housed this failing experimental talk show.
Evan waited to go on and watched the overhead monitors as James played to his strengths—making fun of himself and the network and the show. From this angle, no one could see the weaknesses—the constant state of backstage chaos, the disgruntled writers, the prop room overflowing with plastic dog poop. James kept it well hidden. Just as he kept hidden his apparent disdain for the guest currently sitting across from him onstage. Instead, James listened intently as Sam Samuelson talked about his new memoir, This Gopher Dash Called Life: The Sammy Samuelson Story.
“You good, Intern
?” Andrew popped his head into the green room, and immediately his gaze went to the monitors. “This is some weird shit. They hate each other. I don’t know why James bumped the parrot guy again.”
“That guy’s gross,” Evan said. “Also I told him I wouldn’t go on the show tonight unless he got Marisol on Whose Got the Coconut. So…” He nodded toward the monitor. “Sammy traded the tickets for a chance to plug his book.”
Andrew shook his head. “You got some balls, Evan. Now let’s go.”
Evan stood and James’s voice sounded over the speakers. “Let’s bring him out, yeah? Please welcome our next reluctant guest: Lady Killer—figuratively, no emails please—Evan the Intern!”
The lights beat down on Evan’s forehead, obscuring the faces in the darkened crowd. From this angle, no one would ever know the seats were filled by the ghosts of Halloween past.
He waved to the crowd as he made his way to the couch and squeezed in between the two men. Ever since James announced his half-cocked plan this afternoon, Evan’s nerves had been suspiciously quiet. At first he’d chalked it up to being more comfortable in the limelight. After all, he and Marisol had been on television every day for the last week. Sometimes on multiple stations. But now…
A whole new ballgame.
He forced his knees not to bounce as he shook hands with the game show host on his left, then the talk show host on his right—never forgetting, not for one millisecond, that he was a random twenty-four-year-old from the middle of nowhere. And somehow, this had become his very weird life.
“So, Evan.” James leaned back at his desk. “Anything new going on in your world?”
The audience cackled.
“More or less everything,” Evan said.
“Why don’t you tell us old men what it’s like to play the field? To go out there and get your heart stomped on by pretty brunettes with sexy accents.”
More laughter.
“It’s hard.”
“I’ll say.” James nodded to one of the Internet memes that filled the overhead monitors. If your erection lasts more than four hours, seek medical treatment immediately.