by Tash Skilton
If you ask ten people what a producer is, you’ll get ten different answers, but the gist of it is that Janine’s in charge of overseeing the physical creation of the show from start to finish. Budgets, contracts, above-the-line talent (directors, writers, actors), and below-the-line talent (crew members). In short, her job is to find the right people to do all the other jobs.
Since there’s nowhere to advance in the position, Janine switches out assistants every two years. The job is intended to be an overview, a launching pad in any direction I choose, which means I get to experience every aspect of television production. When my two years are up, I should have a clearer idea of where my interests—and future in the industry—lie.
Today, Wednesday, I’m driving to Manhattan Beach with one-third of a script page in hand so J. J. Westingland’s research assistant can approve the song lyrics used by the noble children’s choir during a serenade to Queen Lucinda. I’ve been instructed to eat the script page if anyone stops me en route.
After that I’m meeting Matty for dinner at Don Cuco’s in Burbank, the very restaurant I chose for Nina and myself tomorrow. My plan to not screw anything up with her includes a practice run so I can determine the best place to sit, and advise her if she asks for suggestions from the menu.
I arrive first at Don Cuco’s and scan the restaurant’s layout. A booth in the middle would be ideal for tomorrow—low-key private, not too close to the entrance or the kitchen. We can sprawl out and I won’t fall into the “Should I or Should I Not Pull Out a Chair for Nina?” dilemma. I don’t want her to feel awkward or uncomfortable at any point of our meet-up. It needs to go perfectly.
The last words Nina said to me senior year are easy to recall, despite my wishing numerous times over the years that I could forget them.
It was the first week of June. The finale party we’d spent so long planning felt like a distant memory, and the news of CoRaB’s cancelation had just hit, so I’d sought her out in a daze to discuss it. I had assumed she’d be as devastated as I was.
Instead, she seemed . . . blank. Above it all. Her voice coiled around me like a snake, slowly squeezing the air from my lungs.
“It’s fitting, don’t you think? Because that’s what we had in common and now it’s done, just like college is about to be done. We don’t want the same things, Sebastian, so let’s just . . . chill and get through graduation so we can go our separate ways and start our real lives, okay?”
It didn’t make sense then, and it doesn’t make sense now. Each clipped, angry word had sliced at me, confusing and cryptic and painful, but I respected her wishes and backed off. We sleepwalked through graduation and “went our separate ways.” She dropped off the face of the earth, leaving me to navigate life alone.
I’ve ordered three dishes to test out by the time Matty wanders through the door. The advertising firm where he works is around the corner, which is the other reason I chose this restaurant; I couldn’t ask him to drive out of his way for my weird little exercise. Not that he’s unaccustomed to my bizarre requests; he was my roommate for eight consecutive years, which is longer than I lived with a comprehensible Millie (I don’t count ages zero to three, aka the Incessant Pattycake Years).
Eight years of listening to me natter on every few months about my feelings for Nina, equivocating and obsessing, must have taken its toll.
And yet. Here we are.
Matty waves and saunters toward me, leather briefcase strapped around his shoulder. I’m so Stockholm syndrome’d from my own briefcase experience, I can’t figure out why his isn’t handcuffed to his wrist.
We slap hands, and after ordering a taco salad and a margarita to match mine, he doesn’t waste a second. “How’d she look? Are you still into her?”
The instant I’d gotten off the phone with Nina the other night, I’d texted Millie about our plans, then texted Matty and filled him in too. My cheering section didn’t disappoint (if by cheering section I mean a GIF Matty sent me of a jubilant Xander Bogaerts celebrating with his Red Sox teammates in a piggyback jump).
“Technically I never stopped being into her.”
He points at me. “Tell. Her. That.”
“She has a boyfriend!”
“If you wait for her to be single, you’ll never do it.”
The urge to defend her clicks into place, like notching an arrow. “What’s that supposed to mean? She’s allowed to date whoever she wants.”
He groans. “I know that, but has it occurred to you the only reason you never dated is because she didn’t know it was an option? If you tell her how you feel, she can decide what to do with that information. I’m not asking you to lure her out of a committed relationship. I’m telling you to come clean for both your sakes. Clear the air already.”
My pulse speeds up. “Tomorrow? Right away?”
“What’s the worst that could happen?”
“Um, the worst that could happen is we go our separate ways for another five years.”
He leans back in the booth and grins at me. “Negative, my friend. You work together now.”
I laugh, but it’s not a happy sound. “All the more reason to shut my fucking gob. I don’t want to make things weird for her whenever we cross paths.”
“What’s the plan, then? You’ll take this to your grave, never give her a chance to say ‘Yes, my long-legged British darling, let’s bang it out’?”
I snort and take a large swig of my drink. If he busts out another falsetto impression of Nina, I need to be at least halfway sozzled. “You know what, yes. If I have to ‘take it to my grave,’ to have her in my life again, that’s what I’ll do.” I cross my arms for good measure but not even my arms believe me.
“Look. The worst thing that could happen already happened,” Matty points out. “And it wasn’t because of an honest conversation.”
“That’s the problem, though. I don’t know what caused our rift. And until I do, I’m not going to freak her out by telling her how I feel.”
“Fine. Get to the bottom of it, and then tell her. If she’s not into it, at least you’ll finally know, and you can move on.”
His subtext rings out loud and clear. “And you won’t have to hear about it anymore.”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “I can hear about it all you want. All I ask is that Nina hears about it too. It’s not like she’s going to be completely shocked, right? I mean, you did almost kiss that one time.”
Early on in my friendship with Nina, there was an incident involving the caffeine pills that came with our freshman welcome packs. During the course of that evening we spent together, kissing seemed 100 percent plausible. The problem was, I had zero experience. I hadn’t even held hands with a girl at that point.
When I confessed my secret to Matty, he finagled an invite to a frat party that weekend at Cornell University, our collegiate neighbor. Ironically, a school called Ithaca doesn’t have a Greek system, and Matty thought I should make out with a few girls to boost my confidence. He marched me into the living room of the house party and shouted, “Who wants to teach my friend how to kiss?” Unbelievably, we got three takers from amongst the sorority girls, as well as a dude whom we politely declined but set up with a classmate of ours. Last I heard, they’re still together. Lucky bastards.
Anyway, we kept this up for several weekends in a row, everyone had fun, no one got hurt, and I upped my game significantly. By the time I felt as though I could show Nina a good time in the kissing department, she was dating someone else. Which, again, she had every right to do.
Still, Matty’s right. I need to come clean. I just have no idea how I’m going to do it.
“I got this,” I insist, when the check arrives.
“What?” Matty lunges for the bill. “No, we’re splitting it.”
I’ve already signed the slip and crammed it back in the holder. “Your money’s no good here. Consider it a thanks for the pep talk.”
Matty squints at me and pulls out his wallet. “Let me hand
le the tip or drinks, at least. Those margaritas weren’t cheap.”
“It’s all good,” I assure him. “Hit me up next time. By the way, I have your monkey bread for tomorrow’s game. It’s in the car.”
He grins. “Seriously? Thanks! But you know you don’t have to make it every week, right?”
“And break the streak? Please.” The La Brea Lemurs have won their last eight baseball games and I like to think Matty’s pregame snack is the reason.
I take another bite of my tamale. It’s slightly better than the burrito and has thus earned a slot on my recommendation list for Nina tomorrow night.
CHAPTER 8
NINA
One hour. I can make it one more hour.
Here’s the thing: The bees are gone. But they’ve been replaced by something far, far worse.
“Medicinal leech therapy dates all the way back to the beginning of civilization,” Celeste is telling me as she’s covering a large tank with a navy bath sheet. “They like the dark,” she explains.
The tank is almost the size of our love seat and is currently sitting across from it, like it’s come for tea. Or, more accurately, blood.
“Uh-huh,” I say.
“But my new holistic therapy practice is going to bring the practice to the twenty-first century. You see, when you’re menstruating. . .”
Oh, dear Lord. “Please say no more,” I beg.
Celeste raises an eyebrow. “Nina. It’s not natural to be squeamish about your own cycle.”
“That’s really not what I’m squeamish about,” I assure her as I catch a glimpse of a swishing black tail at the bottom of the tank. The bath sheet is not big enough to cover the whole thing. “Also, do you have any sort of experience with holistic therapy? Or, like, a license.”
“I’ve got something better!” Celeste squeals, her eyes shining. “My ex is dating someone whose ex works PR for Goop. If I can just get Gwyneth to put this in her newsletter . . . I mean, this could be THE next yoni egg, Nina.” She smiles at me. “Do you want to be one of the very first to experience the magic? I’ll give you a discount.”
“So generous. Too generous,” I say as I slowly back away to my room. “Unfortunately, I have dinner plans, so . . .” I can feel my room’s doorframe with my foot, so I scurry in, still smiling at Celeste as I close the door and then lock it for good measure. Not only do I not trust Celeste to refrain from barging in but, with my luck, she’s managed to “get a good deal” on some incense-based sedative and will drug me and perform the procedure without my consent.
Fifty-four minutes. Sebastian is coming in fifty-four minutes.
I look at my phone. I guess I should do it. It’s been a while since I checked in. I pick it up, scroll to “Mom” and hit the FaceTime button.
“Yo.” A familiar heart-shaped face, perfectly contoured and framed by lavender locks, answers. Not my mom, obviously. Sayeh, my twenty-year-old sister.
“Hi,” I say. “How are you?”
“Good,” she says. “Just about to use Mom’s phone to make my latest video. She got the latest iPhone for herself but not, you know, for the person who actually makes her living from using her camera.” She rolls her eyes.
I refrain from mentioning that if she’s making such a great living from her videos (she is), then she could just buy herself the latest iPhone. Last I checked, Sayeh’s YouTube subscriber count had just passed 1.5 million. “What’s the topic today?” I ask.
“Eyebrows. I have a duty to save the overpluckers from themselves. Before it’s too late,” she adds ominously.
It still boggles my mind that my little sister has created a makeup empire over the fact that her name means “shadow” in Farsi—in fact, EyeSayeh is the name of her channel. She started out as a precocious eight-year-old showing other kids how to paint their faces to look like their favorite Pokémon and has moved on to beauty store endorsements and a contract in the works for her own line of eye shadow: Sayeh Sayeh, I believe is the working brand name.
“What’s up with you?” she asks, as she brings her face closer to the phone, looking at herself instead of me in order to swipe some mascara on. “Still keeper of all the nerd gossip that’s fit to tweet?”
That’s the weird thing about my sister. When she started out with the Pokémon, I was sure she was set to join me in my geeky, pop culture junkie ways. But then, somehow, she switched tracks, becoming trendy and fashion-obsessed instead.
“Yup,” I say. “I interviewed Roberto Ricci this week.”
She racks her brain for a sec. “Oh, yeah. He used to be cute. Is he even in anything anymore?”
“Um, yeah. He’s in the reboot of Castles of Rust and Bone. The thing I’m working on?”
“Right. Right.” She brings her other eye closer and evens out her mascara.
I suddenly realize something. “Wait, aren’t you supposed to be in school?”
“Oh. I’m taking a sabbatical,” she says casually as she picks up a tube of lip gloss.
“Now?” I ask. “Three weeks before the semester ends?”
“I actually left last week,” she explains. “It was getting to be too much dealing with all this—” She indicates the spread of products before her. “Like, who has time to write a paper and be a mogul, you know? Besides, I think the school of life is teaching me more business sense than my stupid statistics class.”
“How is Maman taking that?” I ask. If there’s one thing my mom is a stickler for, it’s school attendance. A very angry nurse once sent me home with chicken pox when my mom had decided I wasn’t contagious anymore (read: There was a “highly important” elementary school standardized test I apparently needed to take instead).
“Oh, she doesn’t care. Now that she’s got a new man in her life.”
My heart is suddenly soaring, lodging itself somewhere in my throat. Can it possibly be true? “What?! Who?” I squeak out.
Sayeh starts laughing and gives me a withering look. “Really, Nina? You’re way too gullible. How have they not eaten you alive in LA?”
“Ugh,” I say in disgust, even though she’s sort of right. Our mother hasn’t so much as looked at another man since our dad left when I was ten. While I was at college, Sayeh sneakily created a bunch of dating profiles on her behalf and all she got in return was a week of muffled crying from Maman’s room when she found out about them. Even the concept of looking for love is too painful for her.
“Well, this has been fun, but I gotta start my livestream in exactly one minute, so, later,” Sayeh says as she takes one final look at her own image and then ends the call without waiting for me to say goodbye.
“Khodahafez, you narcissist,” I say to my own face long after she’s gone. And then sigh. Might as well put my own makeup on. Sebastian will be here in forty-five minutes. I can try to drag out the process.
* * *
I slip out of my apartment barefooted, waiting to put on my shoes when I’m already outside. I’ve had enough Celesteisms for the evening and think I could do without having to say goodbye.
Sebastian has texted me that he’s outside my place but I don’t see him. I take out my phone to message him when I hear something that sounds like a horn section. I don’t mean a car horn, I mean a literal horn section in the philharmonic.
I look up to see a sleek silver spaceship in front of my building, with a profile so low it practically stops at my knee. That’s why I didn’t notice it; it looks like set decoration from Fast and Furious 27, not a real live mode of transportation. Somehow, Sebastian has folded himself into it. He grins at me from the driver’s window.
I know enough to realize that this car costs more than my college education, but I have to glance at the back to find out what kind of car it actually is (a Jaguar), because otherwise I’d have no clue. My eyes glaze over whenever anyone mentions automobiles of any kind—a fact that holds true with medieval modes of transportation as well. There was an unfortunate fifteen-minute interlude in CoRaB episode 303 involving a certain co
mbination of horse and chariot during which, I swear to God, I blacked out. When I came to, Jeff was inexplicably petting a centaur tail. Sebastian had to give me a recap on what happened.
Speaking of whom, he’s getting out of the car now to open the passenger door for me. Grinning, he asks, “Are you okay? You didn’t black out again, did you?”
I can’t help smiling. Five years later, and we’re on the exact same page, thinking of the same moment, the same episode, and we’re not even watching it. I feel my body instantly relax. Being Sebastian’s friend is my destiny. And if I continue to think of him like the brother I never had, then everything will work out the way it was always meant to.
“I got worried for a sec you forgot everything there is to know about me and rented this to impress me,” I tease as I get into the (surprisingly) roomy interior. Is the car so expensive because it has actual TARDIS abilities? That might make it slightly more interesting.
“Believe me, I couldn’t even rent this thing on my salary,” Sebastian assures me. “My boss is letting me borrow it while I housesit for her. I only found out this morning, so the timing’s pretty great for our dinner, huh? I thought it’d be a fun way to explore Los Angeles. Check this out.”
He presses a button on his steering wheel. My door swings open.
“Uh. By foot?” I joke.
“Crap. That’s not what I meant to do.” He presses the same button again, but nothing happens. “How do I get the door to close?” he mutters.
“I have an idea,” I deadpan, and lean out, grab the handle, and manually shut my door.
“Wow. Analog. Who would’ve thought? Okay, let’s try this again.”
He presses the button next to the original one. The Sirius XM station changes to the Radio Margaritaville channel.
“Did you mean explore Los Angeles or explore South Florida through the musical tastes of a seventy-year-old man?”
“Shit, no. That’s not what I meant either.” Sebastian starts haphazardly pressing buttons. The windshield wipers go, the brights get turned on, an alarming mist starts filling the car . . .