The Baby Plan

by Kate Rorick

  Not to mention, ever since the Golden Globes peach lip gloss incident, work itself had not been her oasis of calm, creative expression amid chaos that she normally enjoyed.

  Vanessa had been glowing at the awards. She was featured in all the glossy checkout line magazines and online awards show fashion roundups. But she had become remarkably frosty toward Sophia, blaming her no doubt for the almost catastrophe of the peach lip gloss.

  It was on the first night of the night shoots that it all came to a head.

  “No, I want Kip to do my makeup,” Vanessa said, as soon as Sophia sat down in her ergonomic rolling stool (usually she worked on her feet, but once she told the producers about the pregnancy it had shown up in the makeup trailer with no other explanation). “I’m sorry, Sophia, but this is such a pivotal episode, and Kip and I talked over the exact look I wanted when we were in the limo to the Globes.”

  Sophia’s eyebrows went up as she shot a look to Kip, who seemed both frozen and guilty at the same time.

  “ . . . okay. You know we had long discussions in the production meetings about what the look for this episode would be. We showed you sketches. I’m sure Kip’s ideas are great—”

  “Exactly, Kip’s great,” Vanessa replied, keeping her face neutral in the mirror. “I loved the sketches, and Kip is just going to add that little extra oomph. You understand, don’t you, Sophia?”

  Sophia had bit her lip. “Sure. But Kip has a lot of other people to prep, too . . .”

  “And now you have time to help him with that! Come on, Kip, let’s go.”

  Then Vanessa actually clapped her hands, and Sophia had no choice but to scoot away.

  Kip mouthed an I’m sorry as they traded spots.

  “Just . . . stick to what was approved?” Sophia whispered back, and Kip nodded vigorously.

  Immediately, Sophia felt this total loss of intimacy, being taken away from her work, her canvas, and her friend, as Vanessa laughed and began reminding Kip exactly what kind of look they had talked about.

  The next touch-up on Vanessa’s co-star this episode wasn’t scheduled for a half hour, and rather than sit around and watch, Sophia slid out of the trailer. She found her way to the office of Roger, the executive producer, and told him what had happened. Leaving out the peach lip gloss, of course. She tried to be as neutral as possible, but if Kip was going to be co-opted the production needed to know, especially if they had to hire on an extra hairdresser for the episode.

  “I’m sorry.” Roger sighed. “Ever since the movie came out, she’s gotten more demanding with wardrobe, too. It’ll blow over. In the meantime, do what you can to keep the ship steady—no one’s better at that than you.”

  So she focused on the co-stars, the guest stars. They’d never had better makeup in their lives. But still, watching Vanessa and Kip every day (or rather, night) was like a knife to the gut.

  “Well, is it really that big of a surprise?” Kip had said, after one particularly excruciating night as they put their trailer back in order, readying it for the next day of shooting. “Vanessa is crazy jealous of you.”

  “Jealous? Of me?” Sophia said in utter disbelief.

  “You know how all the entertainment blogs write about her. That she and her rock star hubby broke up because she wanted kids and he didn’t. That she’s baby crazy.”

  “There’s no truth to that though.” Sophia grunted. “You didn’t put her in this Pale Moon foundation, did you? You know the way the DP lights the scene.”

  The director of photography was an Australian gentleman with a keen eye for framing a shot—but no idea about how lighting and makeup worked together. The one time that Sophia had used the Pale Moon foundation on an actor, she saw one frame from the video feed from the camera and forced the crew to stop shooting for an hour while she took the actor back and made him not look like a translucent zombie.

  Roger had thanked her for it . . . eventually. Once he saw the dailies.

  “Of course I didn’t, you’ve taught me better than that. And isn’t there?” Kip said. “You’re not only pregnant, you’re pregnant by her friend and her ex’s bandmate. Like, it’s okay for the band if Sebastian the bass player has a kid but not the lead singer? And all of this happens as she’s under massive pressure from doing the awards circuit and her marriage is ending.”

  Sophia took a moment, let that settle under her skin.

  “I’m not saying she’s right,” Kip said. “I’m just saying . . . give her a break. This will blow over.”

  But as the week progressed, and the drudgery at home and work continued, Sophia had to wonder—which would blow over first? Maisey or Vanessa?

  The only thing that kept her sane was the thought of Sebastian. But unfortunately, at the moment, that’s all he was—a thought. And the occasional phone call.

  As much as Sebastian said he had promised to force the band to cut back and play only local gigs, those local gigs hadn’t transpired. In fact, they had instead decided to join another couple indie bands on the road through the Southwest to Texas—the tickets were all presold, they were filling in for a band that had been told by their label they couldn’t tour, it was a great opportunity! At least, that’s how Sebastian had put it.

  “Look at it this way—better to get all the touring done before the baby gets here, right?” he’d said as he packed. A little too enthusiastically, to Sophia’s suspicious mind. “And this way, it’ll give the manager time to get us local gigs for the fall, when the baby’s here. Once that happens, I’m never leaving your side.”

  She couldn’t do anything but agree with that. But it meant that the only person Sophia could lean on in that time was reachable only by phone, and he was on as sporadic and crazy a schedule as she was.

  “HEY HON WE’RE IN PHOENIX.”

  “Sebastian! Oh, it’s so good to hear your voice. I’m having the longest day. Still at work past midnight, of course, and I just put lipstick on my 100th pig—literally pigs, we’re on a farm and it’s a plot point—but you won’t believe the craziness I’ve been dealing with. Maisey is still—”

  “IT’S CRAZY HERE, TOO. THE SHOW IS PACKED. WE’VE NEVER PLAYED CROWDS LIKE THIS.”

  “It sounds like it.”

  “WHAT?”

  Sophia took a deep breath. “I SAID IT SOUNDS LIKE IT.”

  “LISTEN, GOING BACK OUT FOR AN ENCORE. WE’RE GONNA DO ANOTHER SET WITH THE GUYS FROM THE OTHER BANDS. LOVE YOU!”

  That was how their phone calls tended to go. It was no wonder Sophia’s blood pressure had spiked slightly.

  She took her blood pressure every morning (or rather, every afternoon once she woke up) with the machine Sebastian had given her. And steadily, over the course of her night shift/teenage Maisey week, it inched up.

  Not crazily, but whereas her blood pressure was usually in the 110s or 120s over 70s, for the past few days it had been in the 130s. A slight uptick. She called her doctor, who told her that 1. She probably shouldn’t be taking her blood pressure every day, as it was likely added pressure and stress and threw the results a bit, and 2. It was good information to have, and she should come in and they would record the results so they could keep an eye on it properly.

  She went in. The doctor ordered her to pee in a cup for the next twenty-four hours (it was a very big cup) to test her protein levels.

  Like that didn’t add to her stress, too.

  The tests came back negative. The doctor reassured her, quelled her fears. And she didn’t mention any of it to Sebastian.

  He would ask her if she wanted him to come home. And God help her, she would say yes, and he would. But it would be a lot to tear him away from the band. And he was working so hard to arrange things so he could be there when the baby came. Besides, the crazy was dying down. Night shoots were done by the end of the week, and they returned to a normal schedule on Monday. Once her sleep schedule flipped back around over the weekend, her blood pressure went down five points.

  And once she settled things with
Maisey, it would go down another five, she was sure of it.

  So come Monday morning, when she was getting ready for work in the predawn hours, she also got the waffle iron out, and whipped up a new batch of delicious carbs by which to interrogate one’s teenage daughter.

  But this time, she would do it better. It would be Waffles Take Two.

  She would go into Maisey’s room, and wake her up by rubbing her back and singing softly, the way she had since she was a little girl. Then the smell of maple syrup would no doubt make her pliable enough to get an honest conversation out of her. The subsequent meal would, no doubt, make everything normal again.

  But two things turned that hope into a pipe dream. While Sophia was waiting for the waffle iron to ding, a similar ding came from her pocket.

  It was a web notification. Which Sophia got all the time. She had a notification set up for the show, and every morning after an episode aired her phone sounded like a pinball machine lighting up with all the watercooler articles being written. But she also had a notification set up for the band, and ever since they had been on tour, those notifications were building in frequency. In fact, she had gotten so many notifications for them recently she was about to ignore this one, but she didn’t.

  Although she sort of wished she had.

  It was an article in the online edition of one of those glossy rags she only ever got to read when she got a manicure. It wasn’t exactly a think piece—it was little more than a gushing blog post about “Hanging Out Backstage with the Hottest Band!” And there was a picture of a group of young enthusiastic groupies with Deegan, Mick, all the guys . . . and Sebastian.

  The guys all had their arms around the groupies’ (tiny) waists as they posed for the pic. Sophia knew—she knew—it wasn’t any more than a photo. But Sebastian wasn’t looking at the camera. He was staring deep into the eyes of one of the groupies.

  Sophia knew that look.

  It was the one that made her feel like the only woman in the world.

  So . . . that waffle got a little burned.

  However, Waffles Take Two could still be salvaged. She would just get Maisey up, and they would commence with the bonding.

  But when she gently knocked on Maisey’s door and poked her head in, it was to find Maisey already up and dressed with her headphones on and packing her bag.

  “Where are you going?” Sophia blurted, the smell of waffles forgotten.

  Maisey pulled an earbud out of her ear. “To work.”

  Sophia blinked twice. Twice again. “Work?”

  “Yeah—I got a job.”

  “ . . . what? Where?” Sophia stuttered. What kind of job did a high school student get that started at five-thirty in the morning?

  “At a florist. I’m a delivery girl.”

  “You can’t be a delivery girl—school starts at eight AM!”

  “Not for me it doesn’t,” Maisey said.

  A cold panic shot through Sophia’s chest. “You didn’t . . . you can’t drop out of school!”

  “Oh Jesus, Mom, chill out. I didn’t drop out of school. I have first period free this semester, remember? Dad signed a waiver so I can use that time for a job—an “externship” is what the school called it. So, I don’t have to be at school until nine, at which time, I’m done with morning deliveries.”

  Sophia put a hand to her chest, to calm her racing heart. Thank God, she hadn’t dropped out. In fact, it was ludicrous she’d even thought it. Maisey, for all her week’s worth of temper, loved school. And probably, considering all the extra courses she’d taken over the years, she could skip the rest of the year and still get her diploma. Not that Sophia would ever want that to happen. But falling down a rabbit hole of self-pity was not Maisey’s way.

  Still . . . she had a lot of questions. And she asked them all at once.

  “Where is this florist? How are you getting there? How are you allowed to get a job without your parents’ permission? Why do you want a job? I thought you used your free period for tutoring!”

  Maisey shouldered past her mother, leading them into the kitchen where the waffles sat, still steaming.

  “The florist is located in the flower district downtown. I’m taking Dad’s old car—he says I can use it from now on because they just got the minivan. And since Dad knows about the job, I do have parental permission, not that it’s required by law. And I wanted a job, because . . . because I don’t want to be here.”

  Those words echoed across the small kitchen, as Maisey grabbed one waffle off the table, and took a bite, before slamming the door on her way out. The only sound louder was Sophia’s heart breaking.

  Sophia managed to sit at the table before her knees gave out. Her daughter didn’t want to be there. Didn’t want to be anywhere near her mother.

  So much for Waffles Take Two.

  Sophia’s eyes fell to the plate on the table. The last swirls of steam rising from the golden beveled circles.

  It only took a second for the plate to go flying. Crashing and breaking against the cabinets on the other side of the kitchen. The maple syrup was going to be hell to get out of the hinges.

  Yup, everything would be back to normal, Sophia thought as her nose stung with held-back tears. Soon.

  Chapter 15

  “MAISEY! THANK GOODNESS YOU’RE EARLY!”

  Maisey’s head whipped up as she shuffled into the chaos that was the Favorite Flower. Her new boss, Lyndi, was neck deep in roses, as was everyone else. Red roses, pink roses, white roses, yellow roses, and for some reason, a small pocket of blue roses that didn’t seem to be getting as much play as the others.

  Maisey’s eyes went wide, awake for the first time that morning. “Holy crap,” she said.

  “Holy crap is right,” Lyndi said, on a small disbelieving laugh. “We got thirty percent more last-minute orders overnight than we were expecting. We had to beg our suppliers for emergency stock.”

  “Wow.” They knew there might be a last-minute rush . . . but thirty percent more orders than they had planned for?

  “Never underestimate the ability of guys to completely forget that it’s Valentine’s Day. Can you join the line? Throw some bouquets together?”

  Maisey nodded. She’d only been on the job for a week—and granted, only as a delivery girl—but she had the basics of arranging down. She joined the assembly line right behind the head arranger, Judy, who showed her the order and sketch for the day’s arrangement, and led her through her first bouquet.

  And she worked like that, intensely, mindlessly, focused, for a solid forty minutes assembling bouquets. And to be honest, it was a complete relief to have that time without having to think about . . . anything.

  Without having to think about her mom, or her college applications, or how she just wanted to go to the library and read for the next four to six months. Lose herself in story after story so she wouldn’t have to focus on her own.

  Her mother had been so . . . earnest lately. The week of night shoots—usually a really dull time for Maisey where she used the quiet time at home to either read a couple of manga she got from the library or watch the latest cool sci-fi show with hot midtwenties “teenagers” staring longingly at each other—were suddenly fraught with tension. She was wary at all times that her mom would come home from work unexpectedly, and want to talk more. That she would want an explanation for why Maisey hadn’t done her college applications yet.

  The problem was, Maisey didn’t have a reason. Not a good one anyway.

  Her intentions had been strong. The second she read the rejection email she got from Stanford, she immediately printed it out, reread it, set it on fire along with her Stanford T-shirt (if they were gonna crush her dreams they weren’t gonna get free advertising out of her) and set about downloading and printing out the application forms for all the other schools they visited.

  But as she began the tedious task of going through all those applications—filling out the same information over and over again—her name, her birthdate, her u
nending desire to attend [INSERT SCHOOL NAME HERE]—she began to feel tired.

  Physically, emotionally. Her body felt like it was seventy-one, and not seventeen. She just didn’t want to look at the papers anymore after a while.

  And so, she didn’t.

  For far too many weeks now.

  Because why get your hopes up for an application to somewhere you didn’t even know if you wanted to be?

  Stanford . . . she had known she wanted it. The minute they walked onto campus, she’d felt this “oomph” in her stomach. She didn’t feel that at UC Davis, UC San Diego (she was the only Southern Californian she knew that hated the beach with a passion bordering on fury), or Sacramento State. Just thinking about those other, lesser schools made her heart ache.

  To be fair, there were two other schools that gave her a modicum of the same “oomph” as Stanford: Cal Berkeley, and UCLA. Both of which were just as difficult to get into, just as much of long shots. And if Stanford didn’t want her, with her 4.5 GPA, her county-wide poetry and essay contest wins, her before- and-after-school tutoring, and her frankly amazing personal essay, then why on earth would the other two?

  So she shelved her applications. And then, she found herself sitting in her classes, and her mind would wander to the same point that the applications had painted in neon: What did it matter? If she wasn’t going to have the future she wanted, why was she still working so hard to achieve it?

  So she sort of . . . stopped. Not entirely of course, that just wasn’t in her. But she stopped doing extra. Stopped reading beyond the assigned chapters or trying to find out context. She would simply learn what they wanted her to learn, and nothing more.

  Part of her just wanted to blow everything off. To ignore everything, and lose herself in trolling through her new favorite YouTube star’s Instagram, or in reading a book that wasn’t assigned coursework. To hole up in her room and stake that claim to it.