Semi-Scripted: A Wanderlove Novel

by Amanda Heger

  No way anyone would find it in the Peoria General Hospital trash can and look at the contents. Not that it would matter. By the time they could do anything with it, the show would be long gone. Time to let it go.

  “This too? Fell out of your wallet.” His dad handed him a pink slip of paper.

  Evan didn’t have to unfold it to know it had Marisol’s phone number on it. But he did anyway. Her loopy, sloppy numbers appeared at the top and a big smudge from the mojito she’d been drinking at the bottom. “Yeah.”

  “How about the Rib House for dinner? Celebrate your return home?”

  Celebrating was the last thing he wanted to do. Evan reached out and dangled the paper and the plastic bag over the trash can.

  “Sure.” He let go, and as soon as the flash of pink disappeared, an idea struck him straight in the chest. If he hadn’t already been in a wheelchair, he would have fallen over with the weight of it.

  • • •

  Marisol stepped down from her chair to the thunder of applause. Maybe it was the unlimited mimosas. Maybe it was the thrill of being outside in the California sunshine. Or maybe it was her. The presentation had gone off without a hitch. She didn’t need the posters or the PowerPoint slides. She needed her knowledge, experience, and storytelling abilities. Everything else fell into place. Including an audience who couldn’t stop asking her questions.

  “I have a question about finding community health advocates.”

  “How much experience do you require for your advocates?”

  “Can I get another mimosa?”

  “I am very sorry,” Marisol said. “I have to go to a meeting at this very moment. But if you email me with your questions, I promise to answer them as soon as I can.”

  Amid the chaos of the rats and the blackmail, she hadn’t had time to eat. And now with her final interview about to start—she glanced at the clock—in six minutes, the woozy feel of low blood sugar was creeping in.

  She sprinted over to bar. “Orange juice please.”

  “No champagne?”

  “No, only the juice.” Not that she didn’t feel like celebrating. She wanted to dance on the bar with her fifty newest friends. Never in a hundred years would she have imagined feeling this good about her presentation. Of course, never in a hundred years would she have imagined being sabotaged by genetically modified rats and giving her presentation among free-flowing mimosas either.

  “One OJ.” The bartender winked at her.

  Marisol downed the juice in three swallows. “Thank you.”

  “No problem. Best tips I’ve got in six months.”

  “Hey. There you are.” Clint looked like a kid about to sink his teeth into a birthday cake. Excited, crazed, and a little bit nervous. “Great job. Do you have a minute?”

  She grabbed her laptop bag. “I have to go to my interview. But thank you for everything.”

  “I need three minutes? Five tops.”

  “My interview starts in two minutes. I will find you after, yes? Meet you in the bar.” She didn’t wait to hear his response. Luckily, for once, the interview room was stationed nearby, and she ducked in exactly as the clock struck three.

  “Hello. I am Marisol Gutierrez. Very nice to…” Her voice faded as she took in the scene in front of her. “Very nice to meet you.”

  A plump, balding man in a red tie sat at the end of the table. Light streamed in through the windows behind him, illuminating the floral wallpaper along the walls—and the three celebrity gossip magazines spread out in front of him.

  “I was starting to worry you wouldn’t show.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Which would be very disappointing, because I have so very many questions.”

  The excitement and confidence she’d built during the presentation began leaking out. She wanted to slide to the floor and give up altogether.

  No. Not today. Mentally, she plugged the leak and took a seat. “As you know, I was giving a presentation.”

  He knew because he had been there. All three of the interviewers had been there in the back with their score sheets, sipping mimosas with the rest of them.

  “Hmmm.”

  She fought the urge to ask what he thought of her presentation, but keeping a lid on it got harder every time she glanced at the table and saw those headlines staring back at her. The pictures of her running with Clint. Shaking hands with James January. Kissing Evan.

  “How long ago did you audition to be on the show, Ms. Gutierrez?”

  “I do not understand.”

  “The So Late It’s Early Show. How long ago did you audition?”

  “There was no audition.”

  “As a grant finalist and scholarship recipient, the Della Simmons Foundation paid for your plane tickets, hotel, and conference fees. If you were simply using our funds to further your acting career—”

  “I was not. I did not. I was on the show by accident.”

  “Accident or not, collecting a paycheck from an outside source while you’re here on scholarship is a serious violation of the rules.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s all about professionalism, Ms. Gutierrez. I’m just trying to ascertain why exactly you’re here.”

  She glanced at the magazines again, feeling her insides twist over on themselves. The show had screwed her over, but that didn’t mean she had to let the Pubes do it too.

  “I am here to learn about new advancements in public health. I am here because the organization I work for saves people’s lives. I am here because your organization recognized that and asked us to come. I am here because Ahora deserves the grant.”

  Marisol folded her hands in her lap and looked him straight in the eye, refusing to see—even for a second—those photos of who he wanted her to be.

  “And how do you think the people you—quote—save will feel when they hear you’ve been sleeping with American television stars?”

  Time stilled. That rage clawed its way right back up her throat, and when she opened her mouth, Marisol wasn’t sure what would come out. That she hadn’t slept with anyone since she set foot on American soil? And why should it matter if she had? That this conference was a complete joke? Exhibit A: the applause that horrible dance fighting movie had received.

  “I do not see how my sex life is any of your concern.”

  “You don’t see how sleeping your way to the top might be a concern for some people?”

  His smirk. God, that smug smirk was too much for her to handle.

  “No. I do not. I do not see how any of this”—she waved her hand at the mess of glossy magazines on the table—“matters. I have been at the conference this whole week. I attended all of my interviews, even though they were poorly organized. And I did not complain when someone—from a certain organization that hates fat children—let genetically modified rats loose in my presentation room. No. Instead, I took what I had and made the best I could with it. Which is exactly what people in public health have to do. All the time we scramble for the scraps others leave behind and turn them into a full meal. Which you would know if you ever, even for one day, did the kind of work that I do.”

  Stilled silence filled the room.

  Finally, the man cleared his throat. “I think I’ve heard enough.”

  Marisol set her jaw. She wasn’t getting this grant. That much should have been clear from the moment she stepped into this hotel. But she also wasn’t leaving this chair without saying one more thing. “I will make sure everyone knows exactly what the Della Simmons Foundation stands for.” She pointed at the magazines. “Everyone.”

  She flew out of the room, her laptop bag flopping against her back. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes, but she wouldn’t let them fall. Not here. Not now, while anyone from the conference could see she’d been defeated. Anyone like—

  Pube One’s smile bubbled with artificial sweetness. “I’m so sorry to hear about those rumors. You don’t think it could be someone from here spreading them, do you?”

 
Marisol had no doubt who was spreading the rumors around the conference.

  “Anyway, I guess it doesn’t matter much now. Can you autograph this for me?” she held out one of the magazines.

  Marisol could tell the woman expected her to lose it. To put the final nail in her coffin right there in the hotel lobby in front of fifty sets of curious eyes.

  “Sure.” Marisol put on a sticky sweet smile of her own. “Do you have a pen?”

  Pube One’s eyes widened a fraction of an inch, but she produced a pen from her bag and held it out. Marisol snatched it and started scrawling, her words big enough to take up the entire cover of the magazine.

  Fuck you. (I wrote it in English because I know your Portuguese is not good.)

  She shoved the magazine back at the woman and stormed across the lobby. She’d stop in at the bar, see whatever it was Clint needed to tell her, and shut herself into her room until Tuesday. She’d use the time between now and then to order room service and think of ways to tell her family what she’d done.

  She found Clint at a tiny table in the corner, surrounded by vacationers and business men. All too caught up in their phones and their drinks to notice her approach.

  “Clint?” She forced out the single syllable, unsure she could manage more without breaking.

  “Hey. She’s here. I’ve got to go.” Clint hung up and stuffed his phone into his suit pocket like it was contraband and she was the police. “Wow. That didn’t take long. I guess you…” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped the words back down.

  “What did you want to tell me?”

  “Nothing. Never mind. I figured it out.”

  Marisol could tell there was something more. But she couldn’t bring herself to care. Not now. She stuck out her hand. “It was very nice to meet you. Good luck with everything.”

  “Good luck? What? There are still a few days left of this thing.”

  “Not for me.” Her voice cracked. If she didn’t get upstairs soon, there was going to be a five-alarm sobbing emergency right here in the bar.

  “What do you mean?”

  Marisol shook her head. The words stuck in her throat, and her skin went hot.

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Worse.”

  “Come on.” Clint wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “We’re getting out of here.”

  “Where?”

  He nudged her toward a back exit. “Skydiving.”

  Maybe she’d misheard him. She was sniffling awfully loud. “Did you say—”

  “Trust me. It’s a patented McIntyre solution for all of life’s ills.”

  Day Eleven

  The hours had blurred together as Evan sat in front of his computer. Ten o’clock, then eleven, then midnight. Soon it was ten o’clock again, and the sun beat through his bedroom window. Every so often doubt crept into his sleep-deprived creative haze. Maybe with the benefit of a nap and without the benefit of narcotics he’d see this had been a terrible idea.

  But maybe not.

  It was that maybe not that kept him moving, editing, dubbing.

  “Evan?” His dad’s voice came through a crack in the door. “You awake?”

  He didn’t look up from the screen. “Come in.”

  “I’m going to get Gramps from the hospital. Do you want to—have you slept at all?”

  “I will. As soon as I finish this.”

  “Evan.” His dad ambled over and sat on his bed. “You need to rest.”

  “I will.”

  “What are you doing?”

  How could he explain the last week and a half? Especially to his father who, by all accounts, hated television and Los Angeles and anything except manual labor and booze. “TV stuff. I have to finish this. I’m on a deadline.”

  “Gramps said you weren’t going back to LA?”

  “I’m not.” Evan took a deep breath. “I just have to do this one more thing. Then I’m done with it okay? You were right. It was a stupid idea. But I have to finish this.”

  “We’ll talk more about this later.” His dad shook his head as he slipped out of the room.

  Evan barely noticed. As soon as he’d fished the flash drive out of the hospital garbage, it became a compulsion. He’d loaded the footage onto his computer, pulled every picture and video from the Ahora website, and started sending the emails.

  Julia. James. Andrew. Even Penny.

  Marisol’s mom, whose email address was listed on the Ahora website.

  For a full thirty minutes he’d doubted himself, typing and retyping the email to a woman he’d never met. Trying to explain everything that had happened without sounding like a Nigerian prince on the eve of coming into his trust fund. And then, finally, he hit send.

  The response came back almost immediately.

  Evan,

  My son told me about the show. I’m not sure what to think, but I know my daughter. She wouldn’t have agreed to help you if she didn’t trust you. So I’m going to trust you too. Here are the things you asked for. You should email my son as well. He’s in the States and may be able to help more from there. Technology isn’t my strong suit.

  Melinda

  Attached was a link that took him to a cloud drive. And once he put in the password Melinda had provided, Evan was up to his ears in photos and videos of Ahora’s work. He’d spent way too long combing through them, watching videos of Marisol grinning at the camera as she hiked through miles and miles of green. Making faces at little kids seconds before she stabbed them with vaccines. Helping an elderly woman onto a makeshift exam table.

  The charts and graphs Marisol had him make into fancy posters were there, as well as the organization’s annual reports for the last ten years. Evan took it all in, reading until his eyes felt like they’d bleed. Then he grabbed a drink of water and read some more.

  As soon as his dad left the room, he caved and took Melinda’s advice. He needed more pointed footage. He needed someone who could talk about Ahora and its work, someone who could do it directly into the camera and tie everything together.

  Marisol would have been the obvious choice, but she wasn’t answering her phone. So Evan said a prayer and typed out his email to her brother.

  Felipe,

  I’m sure by now you’ve heard what’s going on in Los Angeles. Can you find ten minutes to do an interview with me? Can be done via Skype. I’ve attached the list of questions. Please let me know ASAP.

  Evan

  The computer dinged immediately with an automatic reply.

  I am in Los Angeles and away from my inbox. I will return soon.

  Evan refused to panic. He’d find a way to make it work, even if he had to record himself reading from Ahora’s annual reports. There had to be a way.

  “Here’s Johnny!” Gramps rolled into Evan’s room without bothering to knock. There was barely enough room for their two wheelchairs in the bedroom, much less for of all the memories that being there, surrounded by all his childhood belongings, brought out.

  “Gramps, I’m in the middle of something.”

  “I heard. Your dad thinks you’re having a nervous breakdown.”

  Evan hit pause on the playback. “I’m not. I swear.”

  “You sure?” Gramps wheeled a little farther into the room, narrowly avoiding knocking his broken leg against the desk.

  Evan slumped in his chair. “No.”

  “Let’s see it then. I’ll tell you if you’ve lost it.”

  “Gramps, no. It’s not done yet.”

  “I don’t care. I’m old. I don’t got time to wait for things to be done anymore.”

  Evan’s finger hovered over the play button. “It’s a short documentary—”

  “Don’t tell me what it’s about. Let me see it. Show don’t tell. Didn’t you learn anything out there in California?” He reached out and turned off the lights.

  “Okay, but I’m going to go back in and—”

  “Stop talking, kid.” Gramps clicked the mouse.

  Evan’s heart took o
ff at seventy miles an hour as light music played from the speakers. The title screen faded in.

  LAURIE ABRAMSON PRODUCTIONS PRESENTS AHORA: COMMUNITY HEALTH FOR NOW AND FOR THE FUTURE.

  Evan grabbed a notebook. If he was going to watch, he was going to make note of every flaw he could find. It needed to be perfect. Marisol deserved for it to be perfect.

  Twenty minutes later, Gramps finally stirred. He sat back in his wheelchair and flipped the light back on.

  “It’s a rough cut. But I’ve got some notes on how to fix it.” Evan waved the notebook.

  “So that’s the girl, huh? The real girl, not the one on TV who makes you act like an idiot.”

  Evan shook his head. “Same girl. And I act like an idiot all on my own.”

  “So why are you doing this here instead of there? And don’t give me any of that bologna about breaking your leg. They’ll let you on a plane with a cast. Especially with a sissy cast like that one.”

  “There’s an entry fee for the documentary contest, assuming they’ll let me put in a late entry.”

  “And?”

  “And once I pay that, I’m broke. So it’s contest entry or plane tickets, not both.”

  “Laurie Abramson Productions, huh? She’d be proud of ya, kid.”

  Evan kept his eyes on the computer screen, feeling too much to look his grandfather in the eye. But he knew Gramps was right. His mother would definitely be proud. “Thanks.”

  Gramps wheeled himself into the hall, slapping Evan’s desk on his way out. “Call me when you get there, yeah? And I still want those head shooter things.”

  “Head shooter things?” Evan called after him. Maybe the head injury was worse than they thought. “Gramps, I told you…” A check poked out from the edge of his keyboard.

  Pay to the Order of Evan Abramson.

  Memo: Laurie Abramson Productions & Head Shooters

  “You crazy old bat,” Evan whispered.

  Gramps’s voice echoed through the hall. “I want one of them producer credits.”

  • • •