Eyes Like Those

by Melissa Brayden

  “The short story you submitted for class is really quite exceptional,” Mr. Delacroix told her one day when he asked her to stay after his creative writing class. She’d selected the course as an elective her senior year, hoping to score more time to write. Mr. Delacroix took off his glasses and regarded her with a candor she wasn’t expecting. He seemed to truly mean it. For the second time, she felt like someone saw her. “I’ve never read that level of precise detail from a high school student, and I’ve been teaching a long time. I didn’t want to put your story down, Ms. Andrews. It was that good. Have you considered writing as a career? You have a flair.”

  A flair. She took a moment with that. Someone thought she had a flair, and they weren’t just saying so to be nice or cheer her up. Mr. Delacroix wasn’t the type. “I’d like that very much,” she said, attempting to hide her smile and losing the battle. He thought she could be an actual writer.

  “You’ll have to put in a lot of work, but I think it just might pay off. USC isn’t an easy school to get into, but you have an impressive GPA. You should take a look at their dramatic writing offerings.” He reached behind him and handed her a brochure. It felt like a ticket of sorts, and she ran her thumb across the bright colors and texturized paper, enjoying the weight of it in her hand. Taylor still had that brochure, tucked securely away in the jewelry box on her dresser. It was too important for the attic.

  After that conversation, she’d found her stride and pushed herself that much harder.

  In a remarkable turn of events, she was accepted to USC, and though she couldn’t come close to paying for it, she’d taken out a gazillion dollars in school loans to attend. She’d also tentatively joined a gym and slogged away day after day until, one pound at a time, the weight crept off. She’d learned healthier eating habits and how to not use food as a method of cheering herself up when she was feeling down—the hardest of all habits to break. The thing was, Taylor had never been obese. She just hadn’t fallen into the one percent, a necessity at Hollywood High.

  What a strange feeling it was to receive an appreciative look as she walked down the sidewalk. The concept of people taking notice of her was foreign and odd and, well…not awful. Who knew that under the weight, she was decent looking. Maybe even, dare she say, the slightest bit pretty.

  Working with Lyric in the here and now, however? A gut punch, and one she needed to wrap her brain around, and fast, before it undid years of work. No, Lyric Larkin and her crazy affinity for wacky nuns was not about to get her down again. She would fix that show, get back to her job, and find a way to stop noticing Isabel Chase.

  Her to-do list was a lofty one, sure. But she’d been up against worse.

  *****

  The nuns, it turned out, were in complete and utter fucking shambles. It didn’t take Taylor long to come to that conclusion once she arrived outside the Sister Dale soundstage, two weeks after her meeting with Gerald. Members of the production staff walked past on the sidewalk like victims wandering around a nightmare. She knew that look. She’d worked on shows like this one, limping along without direction. The concept that you were weeks from unemployment could be suffocating.

  “Hello, Ms. Andrews.”

  “Ms. Andrews, hi. It’s so nice to see you.”

  “Taylor, good morning.”

  “Welcome to Sister Dale.”

  The way the production staff responded to her made it clear they’d been briefed on her new role. The tiny bit of hope that crossed their downturned faces jabbed at Taylor, because she honestly felt the ship was likely to sink regardless of what she did. The world was less interested in zany nuns when they could have outer space, serial killers, and political warfare with just a flick of the remote control. It was difficult enough to keep a family drama like Water relevant.

  “Excuse me,” she asked a woman carrying a large rug on her shoulder. “Lyric Larkin’s office?”

  At just the mention of the showrunner’s name, the woman’s face fell before she remembered herself. “Through there,” she grumbled and pointed at the building next door to the soundstage and continued on her way.

  “Thank you for the help,” Taylor called after her. She followed the woman’s directions and walked to the building much like the one she worked in for Water. She sighed at the thought. Water, where she’d much rather be right now. With her staff. Shooting her show. Living her life, not someone else’s.

  The writers’ office was noticeably quiet, lacking the normal chatter she was used to, where staff bounced ideas off each other, off her, or just shot the breeze. The environment here felt sterile, cold, and solitary.

  She approached a young man at his cubicle who typed with a ferocity she had to admire. Okay, so maybe they were just working extra hard. “Can you direct me to Lyric’s office?”

  Upon recognizing her, he stood and ran a hand through his curly locks. The kid couldn’t have been more than twenty-three. “Ms. Andrews, hello. I’m Seth, a story editor on the show.” Another brush of his hair.

  She admired the way it sprang back into place each time, like those Superhero punching bags from her youth. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Seth.”

  “Likewise. I’ll take you to Ms. Larkin’s office.”

  Ms. Larkin seemed formal, but maybe Seth was just on his best behavior for visitors. Once he delivered her to an emerald green door, he said a quick farewell and dashed back to his cubicle. Eager kid.

  “Come in,” Lyric called from behind the door. Taylor cringed. The voice could best be described as singsongy Kardashian and hadn’t changed in years.

  “Lyric, good to see you,” Taylor said upon entering.

  “Taylor, thank God. I mean, thank God! It is so wonderful to lay eyes on you.” She made a high-pitched noise in celebration. “How long has it been?”

  “About thirteen years and four months,” she answered evenly.

  “Seems like yesterday you were wobbling around the halls of our high school, and now look at you. Fantastic! You lost the weight and then got all successful.”

  “Just to clarify, I’m not successful because I lost weight. Those two things don’t exist on the same plane.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Lyric said, and shimmied her shoulders several times in punctuation. “I believe all things are cosmically connected, don’t you?” She didn’t wait for a response. But you know what? Lyric had changed, too. Her medium blond hair was now garishly bleached. She wore it straight and long and it looked like she’d gone extra hard on the ol’ Botox. Her lips didn’t move a whole lot when she spoke, and her eyebrows looked…hard, like Taylor could maybe bounce a quarter off them. She kind of wanted to try.

  Deciding to skip the rest of the small talk, Taylor jumped right in. “The studio asked me to step in, as you know, to see what I can do to help with the show’s—”

  “Shhhh,” Lyric said, and rushed to close the door behind Taylor. “No one knows we’re failing.”

  Taylor glanced at the door and back to Lyric, squinting. “Don’t they, though? The ratings are public knowledge.”

  “Do you think they look at them?” Lyric asked, horrified by the concept.

  Taylor hooked a thumb. “The staff? Only if they want to…eat.”

  That prompted Lyric to burst into tears, and not the delicate kind. This was a mascara sprinkler for the ages. Taylor vacillated between taking cover or taking action. Her mature side won out. “Oh. Oh. You’re crying. Well, okay,” Taylor said, taking her by the arms and steering her to the plump pink—yes, pink—couch next to a desk with a bright green chair. She would marinate on the bold color combination later. Lyric always had been a trendsetter. Maybe Taylor was just late to the pink and green party. “We can’t have you crying,” she said, attempting to sound soothing and rubbing her back for good measure. “You’re the big boss around here.”

  “I’m not!” Lyric wailed. “The show’s about to be canceled and I have no clue what to do. Everyone hates me. The network! My father! My father’s mistr
ess!”

  Taylor forced herself to move past that last one. “Well, that’s why I’m here. To help. This is actually something I’m pretty good at.”

  Lyric stared at her. “I had no idea you were smart back in high school.”

  Taylor stared at the ceiling and chose not to push back with “because you never once attempted an actual conversation with me.” But Lyric was already shuffling in the highest of heels around her desk. Taylor looked on in intrigue as she began to assemble odd and crumpled sheets of paper. She then took out a tape dispenser and pulled out the longest piece of Scotch tape Taylor had ever seen. “These are the scripts for the rest of the season. They’re in pieces because I got angry, but we can—”

  “Is it possible you could email them to me?” Taylor asked. “Might be simpler than re-taping.” She glanced around, wondering what the chances were that she was on the hidden camera show that shot regularly a few stages down.

  “Email,” Lyric said and took a lengthy pause. “Yes, I can figure out how to do that.” She quickly went to work on her computer, humming what Taylor decided was the Honeycomb commercial from her youth. She tried it out. Honeycomb, big, yeah, yeah, yeah. No, not small, no, no, no. It fit. She hadn’t been wrong, but the fact that Lyric had it running on repeat certainly made it hard for Taylor to concentrate on any work of her own. She also now craved cereal.

  “Done!” Lyric said nearly half an hour later. She seemed to have relaxed, and a ghost of a smile settled on her barely movable face.

  “Great,” Taylor said, taking out her laptop. She downloaded the scripts as Lyric fixated on her phone. As she opened each file, she picked up on a startling trend. “Hey, Lyric?”

  “Yes?” Her eyes still hadn’t left her phone.

  “Every single one of these scripts says it was written by you. Is that a typo?” No answer. “Lyric, what’s so important on your phone?”

  She held up one manicured finger, and after a long pause, “Hold on just a sec. Candy Crush.” Unbelievable. After nearly an entire minute of silence passed, Lyric raised her gaze with a victorious smile. “Not a typo, I write everything myself. I’m a hard worker.”

  “Everything?”

  “All of it. Every word. Penned by moi.” She wrote the cursive of the word in the air and dotted an imaginary “i.” It would have been cute, if the implication wasn’t so tragic.

  Taylor took a moment, attempting to latch on. She was starting to detect her first problem. “Well, then what about your staff? I was told you have seven writers and even some freelancers lined up for episodes later this season.”

  “That’s true. I do. The staff is out there. At their desks.” She pointed eagerly at the door as if she’d solved Taylor’s problem.

  She thought back to Seth typing so earnestly. “This is what I don’t understand. If you’re writing everything, what are they doing?”

  Lyric took a moment. “I honestly don’t know. I just figured they had things to do.”

  That did it. Taylor opened the door and walked to the grouping of cubicles in the space adjacent. “Can I have everyone’s attention?”

  A handful of surprised faces rose from the dividers like meerkats in an open field. These meerkats looked nervous. Taylor pointed at the guy at the back, the one with the beanie. “Can you tell me what you’re working on?”

  He stared at her as if unsure whether to speak or run. “Oh, you mean me?”

  She smiled to let him know she meant no harm. “Yes. You were all very busy when I walked in, so I was curious what it is you’re working on.”

  “Right.” The guy nodded and exchanged glances with his coworkers. “We were. Busy.” Clearly, he was refusing to commit.

  “But doing what?” She turned. “Seth, I might need your help here.”

  He did the rake and bounce with his mountain of curls. “I am working on a screenplay.”

  “Same,” said the bored-looking girl across from him.

  “Spec script for Thicker Than Water, actually,” Beanie Guy told her. He leaned her direction. “I’d give anything to work on your show, Ms. Andrews.”

  “Fascinating,” she said, taking it all in. Was this real life? She took a minute to decide. They went around the room, and the answers all carried the same depressing theme. These writers were being paid full-time salaries to either work on their own stuff or twiddle their thumbs. She didn’t blame them for their choice.

  “You’ve all been very helpful.”

  Ten minutes later, she sat in front of a very angry-looking Lyric.

  “I don’t want them touching my scripts.”

  “That’s what they’re here for. They were vetted and hired to help you. They’re professional writers.”

  “They want me to fail!” She started to shake. “I can see it in the way they eye me when I walk past them.”

  “Lyric, they absolutely don’t want you to fail. Those are expectant looks. They’re just waiting for you to give them something to work on, probably longing for it. As showrunner, it’s your job.”

  Her hands were up and moving around her face like spiders. “I think we need to take a break. I need to speak to the network right away.” Code for running to Daddy. But Taylor had a job to do, and the quicker she did it, the quicker she got back to her own show. She left Lyric in her office and headed back out to the staff.

  “Meet me in the writers’ room in two minutes,” she said, breezing past their desks. As she waited, they shuffled in one at a time. Some looked excited, ready for whatever it was Taylor had to say. Others looked like they’d been caught with their hands in the cookie jar and dreaded the forthcoming punishment. She glanced around the room, making eye contact with as many of them as possible before beginning. They needed to know that she cared, but also that she meant business. They had no time to waste.

  “As most of you know, my stay on Sister Dale is temporary. However, you can expect changes, and you can expect them soon. Be ready to come at me with ideas starting later today in our story breaking session. Script assignments are forthcoming. I’m afraid you’ll have to say good-bye to your screenplays for a while. See you after lunch.”

  To their credit, the writers looked relieved, and that was an excellent sign. After a trying morning, Taylor knew she needed to step away for lunch and give herself some breathing room. She set off across the lot for the Water Tower Café and waited patiently in line for her standard green salad with chicken.

  “Hey, there,” a voice said behind her. She turned around to meet the eyes of Isabel Chase. Though she’d only been gone from Water half a day, it felt like a lifetime. She had to refrain from crushing Isabel, someone familiar, into a hug. She missed her show and the people who worked on it.

  “Isabel, hi.” She grinned. “And how is your day going?”

  “Oh, you know, just doing some script polishing, which seems to be my usual, and then the screening this afternoon.”

  “Right. The screening.” She felt her smile falter. She’d be missing it and would have to watch the episode on her own time rather than with her staff, which was their tradition. The line shuffled forward and Taylor grabbed a tray.

  “Kathleen updated us all on Sister Dale. You don’t have anything to worry about. She’s got everything under control. You have fun with those nuns. Send them on the run. Give them guns. Write them puns.”

  Taylor raised an amused eyebrow. “You’re on a roll.”

  “I need to be stopped.”

  “You need to be dones,” Taylor said with a triumphant smile.

  Isabel covered her face. “Oh, man. I thought I was bad.” They chuckled and moved forward in line.

  “I know Kathleen will be just fine filling in. She’s always been levelheaded and practical.” Taylor met Isabel’s eyes. “You realize that with me doing double duty, there’s going to be more work for you coming down the pike.” She smiled at the woman in a chef’s apron. “I’ll take the salad with chicken.”

  “Kathleen’s already talked with me about
writing an episode.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Taylor nodded. It made sense to pull in the rookie writer, now that she was out of pocket more. “That’s a big deal. An entire episode your first season out of the gate. That doesn’t happen too often.”

  “I better put up or shut up, huh?” Isabel laughed. “I’ll take a cheeseburger all the way.”

  There was something about the confident way Isabel just ordered her unhealthy lunch that Taylor had to admire. She held up her plastic salad bowl lamely. “You’re making me jealous.”

  “Yeah, well, there’s a reason I don’t look like you.”

  “You look fantastic.” She hadn’t even hesitated. While a hundred percent true, it probably would have been better to have laughed off Isabel’s comment.

  “Thank you,” Isabel said, and met her stare evenly. Yep, those were tiny little fireworks going off in the air around them, right there in the middle of the damn lunch line. Isabel accepted the cheeseburger that looked like heaven on a plate. But now Taylor’s mind fixated on how fantastic Isabel did look. Her dark hair was tucked behind her right ear today and she wore the most interesting lace-up flats with her black jeans. She couldn’t have been that much younger than Taylor, but she came with a devil-may-care exterior that Taylor found infectious, and with a more vulnerable interior that made her human.

  Taylor paid the cashier and glanced over her shoulder. “Let me know if you need any consults on that episode. I’m sure Kathleen has made herself available, but I should be by the office tomorrow.”