Scared Scriptless

by Alison Sweeney

  “He’s an actor,” I blubber, as if that explains it all.

  “I don’t understand, honey. What’s that got to do with anything?” my dad interjects and my mom shushes him.

  “You don’t have to tell us. It’s your decision, your life. But if you’re this upset, maybe you need to talk it out.”

  I sniffle and unattractively wipe my nose on my sleeve. “When I first went to LA, I just didn’t want to get sucked in to the way things are there. It’s all about appearances and looks and whatnot. I wanted to work hard and be real. And after Brian, yes, I’ve dated, but no one seems right for me. No one seems to get me. So I’ve just been working, and it’s great because I love my job… but I want something more. And then with Craig, I thought he was right for me because he’s like me. He’s from a small town, too, and I thought he saw Hollywood the way I did. Adam is the opposite of all that. He’s in the top fifty on IMDb, for God’s sake.” I am not even sure I am making sense, but now that the floodgates are open, I am letting everything spew. “And then after Craig turned out to be such an asshole—sorry, Dad—I guess it sort of showed me that maybe I could be wrong about Adam too. Even though he’s so sweet to me and we have so much fun, and I think you guys would really like him… I’m not enough for him, you know? Girls, fans, throw themselves at him all the time. I’m not like that. And the paparazzi follow him around a lot. Can you imagine him in a picture with me in US Weekly?”

  “Why not?” Leave it to my dad to get indignant.

  “What do you mean, why not? Dad! It’s… well… it’s me!”

  “I still don’t get it,” Dad says obstinately. I look to my mom for understanding.

  “Don’t look at me, dear. I agree with your father. Why not you?”

  “I’m a script supervisor, that’s why. I work behind the scenes. Even if this show takes off, I’m a producer; I’m not meant to be under the lights. The girls in US Weekly know the names of every (sob) new (sob) designer, and I can’t even wear… high heels…” This starts a fresh wave of tears.

  My parents exchange a glance that I’ve recognized since childhood. It’s a signal I’m going to hear something I don’t want to hear.

  “Madelyn. Look at me.” When your mother uses that tone, I don’t care how old you are, you do as you’re told. “Since you were little, you’ve been so determined to see things only one way. Your way. Your father and I wanted to pull our hair out for how stubbornly you stuck to your idea that everything is black and white. Right and wrong.

  “Now, I don’t know this Adam person from… well… Adam, but I know you. And I know how set in your ways you can be. If you’re feeling this rotten about what you did, then I think it’s time you stop thinking only with your brain. And start following your heart. No matter how determined you are to be logical and practical—that’s just not the way it works with love, honey. That’s how I ended up marrying a guy five years younger than me. Back then, it was a big deal—we joke about it now, but you’ve heard the stories. I told him no I can’t tell you how many times. But one thing you learned from your father—your stubbornness.” She looks at my dad and smiles.

  “I knew I was out of your mom’s league,” Dad adds gruffly, his words echoing my sentiments about Adam exactly. “But I also knew I’d make her happier than anyone else ever could.” He puts his hand on her knee.

  “Honey, you’ll find that in life, there rarely are things that are done that can’t be undone. You can fix this, but first you have to be willing to put yourself out there.” Mom puts her hand on top of Dad’s.

  “Hogan has told us for years he wished you would push your way up the ladder. He said you sit there next to the director and producer and half the time he trusts your judgment, your opinion, more than theirs.” Dad lets that sink in for a second. “You’re the one holding yourself back. So, that’s it, Maddy,” he adds. “We can’t tell you what to do. But life is like football; if you don’t take a few hits along the way, you’re not trying hard enough.”

  And sitting there on my parents’ couch, under one of my mom’s afghans, awash in my parents’ love, I have a terrifying thought: They’re right.

  Scene 007

  Int. HCP conference room—day

  “We’re here to discuss, for the record, the matter of Hogan Chenny Productions versus Craig Williams.”

  “This is ridiculous.” Craig is grandstanding before the lawyer can even finish getting the formalities out of the way. “Hogan, you know the only way to make this go away is to give me a piece of this. I deserve it.”

  Hogan makes no move to speak, sitting quietly, politely looking at his lawyer. I don’t know how he keeps his calm; I want to jump out of my skin.

  “If I may proceed?” Hogan’s lawyer, William Sams, the gruff, slightly heavy-set, African American man I met only hours earlier, pushes his glasses up his nose. As General Counsel for HCP, I’ve seen him around the offices a few times over the years but never had reason to meet him until now.

  I look around the conference room table at the collection of men and two women in suits representing HCP on one side and Craig and his lawyer on the other. I am seated next to Hogan in the center of the table, surrounded by our legal team. Craig gets to give his statement first.

  “I was proud to represent HCP for five years. I have been a loyal member of the company; Hogan never had one reason to be unhappy with my work until this incident. I feel I’ve been unfairly characterized as a villain in this scenario, when in fact, I’m the one who fostered this idea. It seems only fair to me that I take part in its success.”

  As I listen to Craig go on with his version of what happened, I am partly horrified at his misrepresentation of the facts and partly in awe of his skill to manipulate the situation to make himself the victim with his righteous indignation. If I hadn’t been there myself, I would have believed his account.

  His lawyer jumps in as soon as Craig concludes his version of events. “Given those circumstances, we have here a figure that we believe fairly covers the contribution Craig made to the creation of Never Cry Wolf. This lump sum, along with a producer’s credit and a corresponding fee, will resolve this issue for us.”

  His lawyer pushes some papers across the table to Mr. Sams, who begins to review it.

  I can’t keep silent any longer. “This isn’t fair. I don’t care what that paper says. Hogan, you can’t pay him.” I look at Mr. Sams. “It wasn’t his idea. I swear it wasn’t. He said Hogan wanted to do a reality show, which, turned out not to be true,” I add with conviction as I meet Craig’s eyes. “But I’m the one who thought of doing a show based on Wolf County. It’s my hometown! He wouldn’t have looked twice at the town if it weren’t for me. He skis Aspen, for God’s sake!” I add somewhat desperately.

  Hogan puts his hand on mine, reminding me to pull it together.

  “I hate to argue with Maddy. I know how important her town is to her.” Craig’s salesman’s voice is in full effect now. “But even if you asked people in Wolf, like the Gordons, they will verify that Maddy and I together came up with the idea of the show. We asked them to be a part of it together.”

  “We’d like to provide you with the audio files and handwritten notes that show Craig and Madelyn developed this concept together on their trip to Wolf County earlier this year.” The lawyer thumps a stack of xeroxed pages and DVDs in front of me. I recognize my own handwriting mixed with Craig’s notes from that trip.

  And now it all comes crashing back to me, how much Craig used “we” while we were in town. How I never ended up confronting him about it, and now here we are. I realize as I hear his words, that it’s just his word against mine. And I never contradicted it in front of my own friends.

  “I have other notebooks, ones I wrote before this even happened. Before we took the trip,” I sputter, desperate to contradict the evidence in front of me.

  “I love putting pen to paper too,” Craig’s lawyer says condescendingly. “Unfortunately, without substantiating evidence such
as Craig’s digital time-stamped photos and audio files, it’s impossible to verify when they were written. So, as we were saying…” His lawyer speaks up again, sounding more arrogant, if that’s even possible. “We feel this is a fair offer, and then we can all move on with making good TV.”

  Hogan, still silent, gives a barely perceptible nod to his lawyer, and Mr. Sams slides the “offer” over for Hogan to review.

  “Mr. Pritt, while we appreciate the offer, and the fact that you came here to discuss this with us, unfortunately we cannot accept.” My head whips around to see Mr. Sams’s unapologetic face.

  Craig’s lawyer mockingly laughs. “What? You might want to discuss this in private before you make such a quick, and dare I say, wrong decision.”

  Hogan slams the paper back down on the table and finally speaks. “I trusted you with my company; you were my right hand here. And this is what it comes down to?” He looks Craig up and down. “I’m ashamed I didn’t see through you when I hired you.” He nods to Mr. Sams, who pulls out a thick folder.

  “Regarding Ms. Carson, while handwritten notes are clearly her preference, I do have an e-mail dated back to the beginning of September, in which Madelyn sent you her official pitch regarding the project in Wolf County,” Mr. Sams says. “We had to bring in an IT expert to recover the e-mail since it had been methodically deleted from the surface files of the HCP interoffice network, but luckily, nothing digital ever really disappears. Fortunately we were able to clearly establish that you began mentioning the concept in your e-mails only after her initial pitch to you…”

  Craig whispers harshly in his lawyer’s ear. He nods, and they seem to be gearing up for a retort when Mr. Sams continues. “It was quite a complicated process, retrieving the deleted files in the main HCP network. In doing so, we discovered some other interesting and relevant facts regarding Mr. Williams. We have here Craig’s corporate credit card statements over the last five years. If you review, we’ve highlighted for you that there is over fifteen thousand dollars on last month’s statement that are, shall I say, ‘questionable’ expenses.” He reads from the document with a sneer. “A weekly massage at Kim’s Palace. Tickets to a Katy Perry concert. A weekend golf outing at Pebble Beach to the tune of eighty-five hundred dollars… Shall I go on?”

  “Oh come on, everyone in Hollywood wines and dines. That’s why we have corporate accounts. Hogan and I played Pebble together just last fall,” Craig interjects.

  “With one of the biggest advertisers on the network,” Mr. Sams counters smoothly. “I have the names of the men you played golf with two weeks ago. I couldn’t find them on IMDb, but they are tagged in several pictures on your Facebook profile of you all drinking together.”

  “I was with clients…,” Craig starts, but Pritt shushes him before he can keep arguing.

  Hogan says nothing at all, but Mr. Sams continues. “I have your employment contract here, which specifically outlines appropriate business expenses. Our accountant has tallied up the total you would owe the company in the form of unauthorized expenditures over the last five years. Let’s see”—he looks down at the paperwork in his hand dramatically—“two hundred fifty-six thousand, three hundred fifty-four dollars, and sixty-two cents. If you choose to pursue this claim against HCP, we will countersue you for this amount.”

  Craig still looks outraged. Pritt takes the paperwork from Mr. Sams and starts furiously scrutinizing it.

  In the end, Hogan offers to forgive the debt, but it is contingent on Craig agreeing to walk away from Wolf quietly and signing a nondisclosure agreement to the tune of $5 million if he violates it. I watch Craig’s eyes flying through the document over his lawyer’s shoulder. As if he has other options. I can’t believe I thought I should be with this guy. It seems so long ago now, even though it’s been only a few months. But these last few months, especially learning the truth about Craig, but also being with Adam, has taught me so much. That sometimes things don’t always add up the way they should. Like Craig’s credit card statements, Craig himself has huge gaps. Question marks. Meanwhile, Adam, for all his skills as an actor, has never lied to me. Has never pretended to be anything but who he really is. Adam has shown me so many times, in so many ways how much he cares for me. And what did I do? Blow it.

  Scene 008

  Int. Maddy’s apt—evening

  I’m still riding high on the victory over Craig, but now that that issue is solved, the problem of my love life is front and center. Knowing I screwed up with Adam and wanting him back just makes watching Sleepless in Seattle especially cruel, but I can’t help myself. Tom Hanks is pouring his heart out on the radio to a distant Meg Ryan. Even if I called Adam, what would I say? Somehow I know in my gut that it’s not going to be easy to make this right. And I don’t deserve it to be. I was an idiot. I keep flipping through the channels, looking for something to distract me from my thoughts.

  For a second I’m sidetracked watching CeeLo Green bickering with the gorgeous Adam Levine on The Voice. I stay on NBC, determined to put the unresolved angst from my mind. But then a contestant starts singing Jason Mraz’s “I Won’t Give Up.” Is the universe trying to mock me?

  And the answer is a clearly resounding yes, when a close-up of Adam appears on my television screen. It’s a promo for Days of Our Lives, which shows quick flashes of what must’ve been Adam’s final scenes on the show, and then teases the drama to come in upcoming episodes.

  I stare at the TV, hearing a swirl of voices in my head. My mother’s advice, my dad’s concern, Matthew warning Adam to be good to me, Adam telling me he wants this. And I have what can only be called an “aha” moment. I don’t know how much time passes as I sit there because now that the idea has hit me, it won’t let go. I go into the kitchen and clean up from my frozen dinner. I toss the whites into the washing machine. But I can’t shake it. Finally I realize that if I don’t do this, I will regret it forever.

  I find my phone and make two calls while I reach for the remote and scroll through the DVR with purpose.

  A day and a half later, I haven’t changed my clothes or showered. My only concession to personal comfort was taking off my contacts when my eyes started to burn. The glasses and the time crunch remind me of college days. I’m not letting anything distract me from my mission, even the voice mails and texts piling up on my phone.

  “Maddy. It’s Billy again. Seriously. Why haven’t you texted me back? Give me a call when you get this. I wanna see if you want me to pick you up for the party.”

  “Maddy. I’ve left a couple messages. I’m starting to get worried. Call me back as soon as you get this.”

  “I’m not kidding, Maddy; I’m starting to freak out here. Billy said you hadn’t returned his texts either. Call me.” Janine’s voice is starting to get high-pitched. I take a precious minute to text both her and Billy:

  Me: I’m fine. I’ll see you at the party.

  Then, right on time, the doorbell rings. Through the peephole, I see that it’s Stella. I open the door and yank her inside, bags and all. I look both ways like a criminal and then slam the door again, locking us both inside.

  Scene 009

  Int. House of Blues—night

  I walk up the stairs into the House of Blues. From where I am standing just outside the main room, I can scan the crowd undetected. The place is packed. Instantly I spot Adam. He’s in the middle of a crowd of actors and crew; they’re laughing and toasting each other, clearly enjoying the festivities. The live band is playing loudly and enthusiastically, and the dance floor is already jam-packed. Everyone is caught up in the celebration. Except me. I look down at the softly moving bright red fabric. It drapes down to my calves in the back, but curves up above the knee in the front to show off my legs. The skirt allows for movement, thankfully, but gathers tightly at my waist to crisscross across my chest, showing plenty of skin in front and back. I know my skin is catching the light, thanks to the “body glimmer” Stella gave me. This seemed like such a good idea forty-eight hours
ago. Now I hover at the threshold, undecided.

  “Maddy?” I jump as Frank comes up behind me.

  “Oh, hey, Frank.”

  He looks me up and down, taking in my unlikely outfit. “I got everything all set up the way you asked.”

  “Thanks, Frank,” I muster, but still don’t move.

  “You’re not going to tell me what this is all about, are you?”

  I shake my head.

  “Having second thoughts?” he probes as the whole party rages on behind him.

  I start to nod, and then change it into a shake at the last second.

  He laughs kindly. “Okay, then. They’re standing by, waiting for my cue.”

  A few deep breaths turn out not to be enough. I dart into the women’s bathroom to regroup. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, barely recognizing myself. Stella did such a beautiful job on my makeup. It’s not too heavy, but just enhances my features, emphasizing my cheekbones. Thin dark eyeliner brings out the green in my eyes. I reapply the sheer lip gloss the way Stella showed me.

  I glare at my reflection. Quit stalling.

  Back out in the lobby, I wind my way toward the doorway and take another look at the crowd. Adam is still in the same place, engaged in conversation. It’s now or never. I text Frank and hit SEND before I can rethink it.

  I hold my phone, staring at the screen, waiting for the reply from Frank. A minute later:

  Frank: Action!

  And for the first time ever, that’s my cue. I step out into the center of the room, going through the motions exactly as I’d pictured it in my head. The lights blink out, and the spotlight finds its target in seconds.

  Adam, along with everyone else, looks around, blinking in the brightness. I am completely oblivious to the crowd’s reaction as I step forward. My prop finds its way into the light. Adam sees the red rose, but he doesn’t fully understand until I step all the way out of the shadows.